My Windowsill of Dreams

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.



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