dinner date with mocha brown café

crumpled napkin clutched in lap by hands

who splash ballads onto stained tan canvas with thin brushstrokes, flick incense-ashes to the floor.

an iced tea ordered by the wrong name,

while white cat springs to the floor with silent paws.

venture feels like rain pit-patting on car windows

yet skies produce no downfall here

pixelated clouds become twisted, the distortion of fingers dragged through icing on a cake

songs belted a bit too loud

yet bliss sets in as notes strung together pierce through radio static,

car rumbles over dirt roads of beige.

who tells gypsies to move along?

no farmer with suntanned face can prod the migration of our flock-

this is our time.

polaroids projected over polaroids

nonexistent sky

white abyss behind enclosed canvas in open palms

desaturated ecstasy

bodies take shape through highlights and blades of grass

snapdragons tug at ankles encircled by white and gold tendrils,

proving that lovers are not always the sentient ones.

breach into reality  for a brief time,

gas station neons before re-entering the place where time stands still.

double-parked driveway, reflective foyer, eerily lit kitchen forms entrance to a forever time loop which continues,

not to be broken by repetitive motions of the hand and the heart,

red wine scent catches momentary glance before fading to kitchen smell once again.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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