Although the white chickens have run their course,

the lilacs have regrown,

and the spear-arm days have passed by,

the flowers of today are still in tune.

 

Charlie asked me “What happens when the birds move south?”

My reply was subtle and faint which left him aghast and bored.

No one tells the birds to fly south they just do.

He didn’t understand it, neither did I. But I knew that

words were capable of breathing life into the sky blues.

 

The coffee was bitter and warm and left us cruel under the August night

Lee asked us “Does the night ever seem dull?”

Us three looked at the night sky and agreed.

When the sheer blackness of the sky shivered away from the gleaming light of the sun

we rejoiced with sweet words and black tea.

 

Sweet licorice and Coca-Cola

that was a staple of Mary’s corner store,

my father often took me there to relish in the scents of freshly baked bread.

My brother always got a sweet roll and milk,

I favored a strawberry donut and orange juice.

 

The library was dark and smug-filled.

When Shelly and Eliot spoke to me, the walls became translucent.

I left and wandered down Narrow Street where people sing and dance.

They moved like butterflies.

I went home, undressed, and dreamt about the somber night and its tango.

 

She once asked me if I wanted a bouquet to light my space

I said no

the lilacs from the waste land were still embellishing my life

and the white chickens still pecked at me.