The Old Town

It must have been five decades ago and more,
I must have been four or even before,
The voices coming from the narrow unpaved street,
The rumble of horses and buggies and feet,
The voices so long ago gone, vanished, disappeared,
If you heard them today, it would sound weird,
The horse and buggy selling the ice for the icebox,
You could get half or a third or even two blocks,
The man selling vegetables, he had a huge horse,
That was patiently eating as a matter of course,
The old man carrying his knife sharpening stone,
He would sing his services inviting homemakers-
To get their knives sharpened and honed,
Then there was the guy collecting old things,
He sang in Yiddish “Alte Zachen” his voice would ring,
Meaning “old things”, bring them to me,
It was a mobile flea market yet without the flea,
There was the half-crazed old man in his long coat,
He used to collect glass bottles. Why? I know not,
A couple of months ago I visited the old country,
Sitting not far from the Mediterranean sea,
The small, neglected, hot and sweaty town,
It’s not changed, same old place, more run down,
Brought back the memories of times gone for good,
When I used to live in that old town, in the hood

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