In old bookstores and smoke-filled pubs
I find out about things that have been lost
and slowly learn what some still have
and what they miss.

I lie in bed and 
stare at naked feet down at the end
they seem like father’s which I never wanna have

I recall the smell of summer rain on needles 
from pines in lands behind the curtain
Or I am anxious to travel back

Sometimes I hear again
the neatly crafted song
with lines that hint
Defiance

In a writing workshop, the prompt was a poem by Yehuda Amichai. I borrowed the title and the second line.