Me and my girl,
the girl with dirty feet,

We used to pass the days by sitting on the porch,
the evening wind satisfying and warm.

 

She draped her legs over my lap
as waves of orange and purple
washed over us,
cleansing us from
the hard day.

 

Not a sound could be heard, except the soft
snores from our old dog
and an occasional giggle.

 

I lay in bed now,
70 years on,

I can still smell the
old wood of the porch.

I can still feel that warm wind
and hear the soft snores of
a friend long gone.

 

Most of all, I can
feel the weight of
her feet.

Oh, how I miss my girl with the dirty feet.