I sit on my windowsill of paradise.
A crude cement wall dividing two faces of a past.
Long stalks of draining grass
sheltering beneath its shadow;
Grey branches reaching with feeble fingers;
Generations of golden globes delighting the spring and summer,
While fresh green leaves nuzzle the citrus breeze with their velvety lips.
The buttery popcorn walls of the garage, now reek of sour milk
For even its expiration date has faded
Replaced with a brick tomb stone that does not wish for peace.
Parked outside its gates, a red bug with rusted wrinkles offers little company.
Its charming crimson cloak, now ripped and torn,
Its name, lost among the decks of dust
But barely visible beneath the rash of rust,
RRM 196, written by the golden state;
For it has long since been used by couples,
Who sit late into the night,
Dreaming of each other’s eyes
As moments pass them by.