clear glass window stoops over city's freeway
where cars and trucks rumble and sprint like ants
on brown veined leaves, underneath summer sky
whistles and tires drum the roads like bees gathering
honey before the butterfly net catches its golden tails,
scaring small black birds perched on the maple tree
nearby the flock of geese amble between parked cars
like a solemn procession for the saints or the brown cross,
babies following the father robed in white and grey
above maze of roads, she comes to peek at my window,
checking the traffic she says in her soft wistful voice,
but always craning to see her cottage, a dot in the blue lake
her face is apple stained with divorce papers and struggles
of everyday cares, but her eyes twinkle in a merry dance,
stomach full of laughter, as she thinks of retiring in 7 years
my eye catches the shade of the day, bright cantaloupes,
ripe mangoes sliced sweet and plump, framing office cube,
bare of personal touches, clearly a pit stop in my book of travels
i don't see a white cottage by the lake, but the arms of sun
growing longer, brighter in orange twilight. a thunderstorm
is coming tonight but for now, i like the view from my chair
