The old house
What sun is this that sets?
Hush orphaned days, you've only
a tussle of hair left to smooth
with my backwards turn home.
The children of the boulevard
complain of bellyache, skipping
lazy circles around ocean
colored bedsheets flapping;
across the tree line strolls easy
the girl with wide english eyes,
parting the curtained windows
and the hair of the heads behind them.
Slow steps bicycle by, to quiet
in lawns of sons and daughters grown.
Yawn northern town,
your ten o'clocks are sweet.
words © 2000 Brock Bowman
image © 2000 Jon Reischl