My Dads Life for a Buck

My Dad was a dreamer that is certainly true,

He always dreamed bigger and better and some he saw through.

He built himself a business based on good things,

He worked hard and prospered his projects had wings.

He invested well and followed through

His friends would tell you that is all true.

Well my dad began to grow and prosper far beyond his means,

He began to believe he was someone different or so it seems.

You see after 47 years he looked upon his life,

He gathered up the fruits of his labor and he left his good wife.

His investments were worth millions or so it seemed,

But when he left the dreams fell apart and so did his means.

The empire he built came crashing down,

The predators circled and took all they found.

Good people lost their money too

My mom was left with nothing she could do.

Houses were lost and millions couldn’t be found,

The empire he had built came crashing down.

My father he left and moved away,

In his home his life would stay.

I went to his home to gather his stuff,

There was a lot there, there was too much.

There were things that meant a lot, I thought should probably stay

But the vultures where gathering to take, take them all away.

In the living room there was an ancient gas pump,

It was from his father’s station but that we would dump.

There was a bell from an old fire truck,

My father had treasured that bell, maybe it will bring a buck.

I looked upon a lobster trap found by the sea,

 My parents found it long ago, long before me.

From their trip to the tropics there was a wooden owl,

On the wall a first day of issue stamp featuring John Wesley Powell.

There were things from my Grandmother, Treasures really,

They might bring a buck or maybe three.

There were tools that had been used by me as a boy,

Tools that fixed, built and repaired all my toys.

I am really quite saddened, saddened indeed,

For these treasures are crap, of which I have no need.

But as my father’s life is stickered and tagged

My heart is broken as his silverware is bagged.

I look across the living room a literal memory dump,

I wonder if Grandpa would miss his old gas pump.

When you come and offer me a buck,

For that bell, the one off the old fire truck.

I will tell you of the dreams my father had,

Hopefully it rings better for you; to me the ring is sad.

What isn’t stolen, lost, or bought; will be loaded on a truck,

Here take back your dollar; I have no want for that buck.