34 years ago. Still much missed and remembered. It was a warm December, on the island of blankets and beads. Twelve eight, do you remember? One West-seventy second street. Im the catcher, I will be the catcher in the rye. Underneath the arch way, a little man lay hid in the dark. The walls still echo gun play, that rang out on Central Park. I keep picturing little kids, playing some game in this great big field. And nobodys around, nobody big. If they fall, Ill be their shield.....
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 13:20:08 +0000
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