More years went by,
in getting to a point
where the office break room I called my own
actually had an outdoor facing window,
than I counted.
My back is to that window lately.
My face is to the vending machine and
black case velvet television basket head.
The late afternoon,
razor brilliant where the sun is
settling into the tree tops, glows
like new born steel beams
already riveted together into day dreams and
waiting for the cool.
In my eyes,
toward that window,
I can see the reflection of Summer,
unconditioned, careless
as loose fires on a high grassed hill,
and I can see my last real season
in that orange millimeter inside my iris
on the machine's face, that blew across the sky
like nails and pipe shard
built and twisted together
when I was still young enough to lose
so many kites, balls, and toys
up so many sunset trees
out there beyond my window's window.
As an adult, I do not know,
why I no longer have the heart
for paper planes in Summer time.
No answer for the adventure song,
the long low call, of the child
I left outside.
Break ended
ten minutes ago.
original works of parts
