"From a local diner window"

                        From a local diner window; an afternoon street yields to a moment's stillness. Endless days spent watching tenement wall-clocks steadily bleed out tenuous minutes. The second-hand winds down between indoor hours; protected from pale morbid winter. Fluorescent shadows drift and pounce off household walkways. Marble steps of stone that lead to her doorway; remain petrified at her residential entrance cameo. Boredom flickers as electronic evenings grow dim; it is the decline of a seasons cycle. This suburban town knows no distinct flavor; mediocrity pours from its brim. A lakeside park resides upon a street city intersection; while vacated park-benches rest silently beside a grim Tuesday river. Winding out of time: our frail existence exhales it's last feted breath.
                       Routine maidens of the lower-middle class; teach our routine children wisely. We shall know no heavenly rapture in this inconvenient era. On blue-collared summer vacations we absorb the beige-white shore-board; while Saturn's phosphorescent ring flickers mechanically amid jaded black-hole orbits. Stationary time knows no desired satisfaction; piling old dingy clothes in dark remote corners. Dusted cupboards of stale early-morning descend frail mortal ancestry. This sullen neighborhood neck of thinning woods grow sacred. I act a patient fool before my vulnerable lifetime grows short. The folly of innocence lost among naked days of laughter. Love knows no educated boundary. My bleeding pen of yesterday scribbles pretentiously through self-proclaimed diaries; layered in age-old evening soil. The auburn dust of a misplaced generation greets my workshop window; below Autumnal trees: withered through laboring weather. The boughs grow hollow with meager disease. I watch the swallows migrate up the snowy coast. Below transcending skies; my lover in slumber: on a scarlet bed she lies. Awakening to an empty death of Mexican immigrants in peephole kitchen vestibules; where porcelain floorboards grieve a long-awaited absence of morning mops to sud their surface.
                       A century gone wrong in the eyes of god; is nothing but a brittle leaf fallen between femininely fingertips. A womanly scarf shields her soft neck from the frigid terrain; while mild clouds disperse gently above: get off your pawnshop knees now darling. There are still sharp thunderous cries that echo throughout our apartment courtyard on quaint autumn evenings. A native yelp upon our urban threshold; a pair of worn sidewalk sneakers beyond their prime. Road-shoveled dirt and cement-truck upheavals; pained personal suffrage is all that remained: after a totaled misused decade.