A Poem

They all call me Nick.
That's how it's always been.
Working my shop,
with my toys filled of tin.
The bell on the door
gives off a ring,
and my empty old shop
begins to sing
with the voices of children
fresh from the school
they come here to play
with a jovial fool.

The boys gasp at the cars
while the girls ooh at dolls
all neatfully stacked
in their child sized stalls.
The new train is in
a black and gold dream.
It's powered with coal,
and puts out real steam.
The girls in the corner
all giggle with glee
when they find the toy house
made for Susy McGee.

They laugh and they smile
as the sun slowly sinks,
inviting the night
with her oily dark ink.
And slowly they leave
to make their way home.
And my little toy shop
is left all alone.