Glasses teetering on
the bridge of
here and tomorrow,
Cunning squinted out through
clean, brown window-panes.
He looked as a giant palm tree,
sitting in a garden wheelbarrow,
Popping right out of
the chair’s buttons.
He hoisted loftily a lanky arm
and it swayed in the breeze
of the jet stream.
An ant on the ground clicked
softly and scurried him to his feet;
His misty words descended on
London and a motorcycle’s headlights
flipped on.
I was still with the sand in
my hair,
Watching a palm tree situated
in a wheelbarrow.
Sun Apr 19, 2009 2:24 am