Doors open, sunlight

grabs me and throws

me

down

the

stairs

feet first–typical

–head high,

buds plugged in–

almost deaf.

Rough and tumble

scuffing soles.

Beck, playing:

Hell yes,

I’m movin’ this way

I’m doin’ this thing.

(Please enjoy.)

The city “bells” ring,

summoning the hour.  Productivity

of reorganization,

of construction,

of change is rattled

through

hammers and saws.

An orgy of sound is quickly

disbanded by

The Association,

playing Bobby Darin, and

now I’m

somewhere

Beyond

the

Sea.

Instantaneous crave

to snag the next passing by

Jackie O,

dignified, guiding her

by

the

hand to twirl,

splashing her hair–

cubes swirling in peat

whiskey tumbler– 

ripples generated,

pushed shifted feet–tidal

–and dip to finish,

wading in the aftermath

of puddles. 

Walk hand-

in-hand

while the click,

click,

click

of our heals

blend in; harmonize with

the clinking of the street

meat tongs, over passion.

Scent for competition.

Pheromones,

undescribed blanketed

odors cloaked by

Armani–

ripoff–

or flannel

pajama pants.

And

curve.

Attention comes in

a bottle.

Look

up

there at the

spires, standing high

into the Heavens where

god and the devil

resided once

before they came back–

tumbling–

to earth

to fill our hearts with

love and hate;

sympathy

you feel for

the peddlers

pushing

pocket pennies

is in limbo.

And it’s sunny.

And whatever

gripe,

worry,

or strife

is forgotten about

until that first

raindrop

falls

to

the

ground.

Dime-sized ponds

coagulate upon

pavement, soaking

in eventually.

Pennies From

Heaven for you and

me–sing it

Prima, proudly–

and everyone else

and everything else

and

flourish.

Raindrops being Heaven’s

change, enriching

the earth,

budding,

flowering,

blooming

in bouquet bursts

in planters,

on street lamps–

or solo, standing,

sticking out as one

daisy; an icon for hair,

for sensuality

delicately depicting demeanor

as she sits, reading

in a red sun

dress, white

dots, peach

lips. 

Serenity.

Lost in the pages of a

neverland tale, peaking

interest as climax

edges, shooting from nowhere–

a fountain–

in columns;

buiding a castle of imagination:

surround yourself.

A different world

within a familiar city.

The clock clicks;

an hour’s done.

 

{Kitty Hoynes}