The city rides are tossing around
Big oak leaves across the road
Half-past gone, the sun that sets
On these photographic, rustic doors
I am torn between writing and painting
Torn between the alleys, the shore
Huron river and the old-town lights
Across the city, I compose no more
For its done and set and ready to fall
Its half-time of my destined chore
And soon I‘ll pack up, and leave behind
A song of memories, this random lore.
-Al