hot pink lemonade bursts through the unquiet
hush of an early twilight humming with insect wings (mosquito’s
like fiberglass needles pinching plump peach skin) and
yes there is the creeper curling over the white picket fence
and the bleached purple sky sinking into an air full of
the smell of peanut-butter and honeysuckle on
hot stones, and an empty driveway crazy-paved with
memories; there are the drowsing dandelions weaving
drunken webs over bumps and cracks and empty spaces
beside a house of sighs and soft corners whose
paunch sags across a tangle-garden
into leaves of dreams and close-eyed Cyclops flowers
with drooping faces; there is the creaking porch step
the half-finished, rotting dining table and
the red-eyed window panes of the ending day and
here the curtains close upon a middle-aged home
with tiny sprawling bedrooms and a little bit of flab
around the edges and an unobtrusive address
as the residence of love.
Suggestions for improvement and title welcome!
