mind lost in circles of space
blinking ryhmes of the universe
trickling their way into this verse
tapping to a story of the hoary
old sages who lived in through the
green, blue, and yellow points of history
Outside the lady sits all day
On a crate once chocked with caraway
Box and heart have long since filled
With pieces fixed, forgotten, willed
The hand pump creaks with ancient rust
While dogs of mind feed flesh of trust
Although the clime may spin erratic
Her proven eyes show smoky static
Today the dogs rest out of reach
Of youthful charge a penny each
And while the shops close for the night
The footpath crosses smoky sight
Wind will scatter and seeds will grow
In cracks that only hollows know
And above the gusts I can only ask
To taste whatever is in her flask
Another scene unfolds on the fiftieth floor
As high up in the sky as birds could fly
Sat the graying lady behind closed doors
Expelling a beat of heavy huffing sighs
One croaked arthritic hand curled around a pen
The other finger tracing the alphabets and lines
In which she buried her youthful zen
A piece composed by a generation of bureacratic minds
And she wondered what the days be like
If she never walked away from the corner stoop
where she spent her days as a little tike
counting leaves and slurping corn soup.
