The Moving Man

It’s moving time, we’re all packed up

     And waiting for the van;

He said he’d be on deck at nine,

     The busy moving man.

We’re sitting on a wooden case,

     That holds the kitchen ware;

“He must be moving others first,”

     We argue in despair.

The food is packed, we know not where,

     The children want a bite;

I hang far out the window front,

     No moving man in sight.

I send my loved ones half a mile,

     To eat as best they can,

While I turn up my coat and wait

     The snail-like moving man.

Two, three and four o’clock arrives,

     I daren’t go away

For fear the moving man will come,

     And chide me for delay.

Ah! Someone comes, ‘tis he at last,

     But where, O, where the van?

“Can’t go today, my wagon’s broke,”

     Says he, the moving man.

April 1, ‘09