The leaves have turned elderly,
Fighting the pulls and drags of the unforgiving winds.
One by one the grip slackens,
Yielding itself to unknown grounds.
Until the twelfth of never,
I will still adore the leaves light pitter-patter,
Encircling around my heels like small gleeful children.
The hinges of front-yard swing gates have decayed,
Dangling off the sides like loose teeth ready to drop.
Until the twelfth of never,
I will still adore its creaky whistles
That filled the lull of empty boulevards.
The stop signs have long lost their sheeny luster,
Their octagonal heads shaking as if gesturing that four-letter-word.
Until the twelfth of never,
I will still adore their will to stand alone, unbothered.
The black trash bags are big pot bellies flumped on the sidewalks,
The feral cats are like cannibals
Snarling and tearing their bulbous, plastic flesh.
Until the twelfth of never,
I will still adore how these sacks
Lug each neighbor's worn little secrets.
From tattered bank checks to poor words of poetry.
From shattered wine glasses to cracked baby bottles.
Until the twelfth of never,
I will still adore what has been wasted too soon,
What has withered with age,
For they continue to cling,
Like scars that leave behind a lasting mark
On the pavement of Maspeth, Queens.
YOU ARE READING
Whisperings Beneath It's Surface
PoetryAccounts of hauntingly genuine poems based upon my memories, dreams, nightmares, and imagination. Nothing is trivial in this world. For everything blossoms meaning. All it takes is to observe something, and it may whisper to you below its surface.
