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The Living Standstill Of The Massachusetts Man

 A Narrative Poetry

Through the transition of time, faded becomes the once luminosity of the red buzzing Fire station. In the absence of its firemen, remain the lone Massachusetts man. Silence is the brigades of those that once volunteered for the protection of homes. Yet, lone remains this Massachusetts man for the protection of what has come to be a single home.

Many years before the man, were the brave fire watchers who roamed the streets of Ashburnham, Massachusetts, with their large wooden rattles for an alarm, to bring together the bucket brigades needed to cease a flame.

Today, large is the heart of the lone Massachusetts man, for his beloved Miley, who ceases to be. Yet alone he remains for the preservation of their home that used to be. No longer are the wooden rattles heard for an alarm, but quietly the neighbors watch the man and the piling of his chopped wood all day long in the shadow structure of the old fire station.

Oh, great firemen of old, where art thou to put out the silence lingering flame of this lone Massachusetts man I behold? Pounders the distant neighbor, through the covering screen of her door, her green eyes carefully observe as he goes to and fro.

At the front of it all, parks the man’s large red truck in the cold as he gathers firewood in the shadow of the old fire house. The need to move forward is present with his truck, but his memories of this place stand firm as the old fire station remains in its place.

Those that came before him were the extinguisher of flames, but one could observe that the Massachusetts man chooses to keep the memories of his flames, through the chopping and the piling of his firewood all the day long.



A narrative poem by P. S. Wilmot, titled The Living Standstill Of The Massachusetts Man. Found on A Walking New Man website

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