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A Dying Breed

by Jeffrey Parren

You're Persian from
Beverly Hills
and you won't even
tip me 15%.

You're farmers
from Montana
and you're about to
tip me 40%.

Which one will I
remember?

The answer used to be
the beautiful Persians
with their fine fragrances
soft skin
and diamond crusted digits.

The envy
of that flaunted happiness
that probably is shrouded
in some kind of karmic
tragedies
was overbearing.

I had to hate them
and their stinginess
which blinded me
of the true treasures.

A simpler life
in cold Montana
on a farm
unlike any I've ever seen
these kind people
have journeyed away from.

The Christmas spirit
has escaped me
for a few years
and the endless stream
of festive tunes playing
with every step I take
has not helped.

It's the finer times
I have been missing
with those closest
and a staggering tip
followed with the
“Happy Holidays”
brought a certain warmth.

I spoke with them
more than usual
and I took the time
to give some personality
and they in turn
gave some personal items
bringing us somewhat
closer.

Their patience unflappable.

Their happiness
within all that experience
gave me a certain hope
I had been missing.

If, but for a moment,
I was considered family
to them
and it felt nice.

Connections are not built
upon the rich or the poor.

They are built upon
the genuine people.

They are a dying breed.

12/13/2011

Posted on 12/13/2011
Copyright © 2024 Jeffrey Parren

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 12/13/11 at 01:39 PM

I am not of the twitter age. I can use a cell phone but still play records. I am of an age standing on the brink. Except for the part of me that worked, I'm not sure I know what it is not to be me. That is partly why I have few friends. And as much as today people think it is important to tell everyone via a 'twit' what they had for breakfast, I rarely see anyone talking about what is important to them. But then maybe breakfast is all that is important. Good write Jeffrey.

Posted by Joe Cramer on 12/14/11 at 02:25 AM

... excellent.....

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