Sliding Glass

Encased the abode of an aging neat freak, with her fish, her bird, and her asian fetish. A magical voice hid in those peripheries. I'd smoke outside, though i was always invited in.

The blue pool with white sun-lines writhing like lonely coy in the height of a MoVal summer stroke.

Or the influenzous week in my fifth year, full of fever dreams possessed by concrete, made soft by summer, while mechanics bellow from behind ropes and ropes of air pressure noise, carried onto the carpet of my mother's room, with both the wind and midday, sprinkler myst.

Indie bumpkins swaying on the banister, such a flawless flirt even when inflicted with a G and J slur. Plastic cups of colors and colors mix in with the dead plants.

Climbing the fence, tearing her jacket, banging at 2:10 in the morning. Somehow the sliding glass door, in thru the backyard, seems most logical.