Sentimental Value
By Marcus Jones
The flute was his granddaughter's
Who's resting in her grave
A precious belonging
That's three hundred miles away
Inside of its case
That's inside a travel bag
He's inside his truck
And he's burning up gas
No more junk in the attic
They're shipped, given, gone
The flute was an accident
He drove off at dawn
An old photo in his wallet
Her face can always be seen
No matter where he goes
A memory of her at fifteen
Holding her birthday gift
With a smile that touches the heart
She played her flute heavenly
Right from the very start
One hundred miles he's driven
One stop for gas
But knowing the travel route
Has shattered like glass
Twenty miles down the road
There's a hitchhiker up there
The familiar look of her
Is the reason he showed some care
She looks just like his granddaughter
She could be her twin
Come on, get in
Maybe you can help me my friend
What a strange coincidence
She's going to the same location
With a smile and conversation
She gave needed travel information
They arrived at the location
He took the nice woman's pic
He reclaimed the precious property
He retrieved granddaughter's gift
He came back out
The woman, of course, is gone
The picture of her is blank
An angel all along?
Did I really talk to her?
Was she really just here?
This blank, polaroid
Marks a memorable, sentimental year
By Marcus Jones
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