Knotty pine, knotty pine,
you give me a naughty time,
bending nails, dulling blades,
just look at the mess we’ve made!

You make me nuts, I start to drool
and measure twice (which was the rule).
When I cut you down to size
I get sawdust in my eyes.

Soon I sneeze, choke and cough,
surely I have had enough.
I look at you and I see shelves,
but you’ve loftier visions for yourselves.

You chip, you split, you dent, and fail
when my hammer misses a nail.
My wits end has made me spastic.
I wish that you were made of plastic.


© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik 2013


It was a great place to gestate and grow,
knowing that the nuts never dwell
where the trees no longer grew.
A strain of Dutch Elm erased
the classic overhang that once graced
her curbs. Children played
where their imaginations took them,
and staying engaged until the street lamps
flickered hello. And you knew you had to go
when the symphony of parental
whistles sounded. You were grounded
to the people  who resided there,
never a care of destruction or death
until age showed its tired head.
The yards were mowed and trimmed,
a shimmering emerald island
surrounded on all sides by love.
Above all else, it was the home
for generations, felt the pains
and elation of a familial bond,
until we finally reached beyond
her borders. Wood Street  was home.
But now it stands alone. The only
knock on Wood was that no one had remained.
Knock, knock? Who’s there?
No one.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik 2013