Summer again, let verses as blood, pour from catastrophically frail veins in vague premonition. Do not try too hard, let it ride, and do not force anything. Sunday now, longing for the ancient peep-hole city and it's grave architecture. Subtle winds breathe between solid building foundations in slow rhythm. Street people reside on public park benches, while basket women offer stray pigeons breadcrumbs, children lackadaisically ride bicycles into oncoming traffic.
Screen windows, exploit loose change and pocket fragments, mixed in through dry lint corridors. Lost decades upon heaping piles of forbidden love letters, sordid manuscripts never sent. He loved her with all his bleeding heart, he Henry, the 9 to 5 pauper of all trades, Her Lucilia, the Braided Easter Basket Bunny of promiscuous head-ware, blue with an extraordinary smile. Her portrait and demeanor on Tuesday. Her feminine frame immaculate. Their love was unique in marble banquet halls. On pillared ivory walls of shimmering fountains and diamond chandeliers.
Thoughts and endeavors got kicked to the gritty curb a long time ago, came looming in to sunlit courtyards with Velcro sneakers. Telephone wire mangled above urban intersections, knotted shoestring came in dusty packages, fell through furnished domesticated loopholes of interwoven fingers and clattering U-Haul trucks.
The after school grandchildren cartoon blues, take-off shoes, then unwind upon the carpet. Workplace afternoons, heartburn and headache, approaching deadlines with airline food. The kids at school with their imperfect teachings.
Back in the late 70's he bought her a brass ring, barely knowing her at all. They walked home together sometimes upon a little footbridge that oversees the common village terrace. Thoughts and idealization's clouded his egg-shell mind of how their lives would meticulously intertwine. He never had the nerve to ask her. That brass ring is still neatly tucked away in a plastic shopping bag, in a damp corner, of a dank basement.
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