After the sun has stopped painting strokes of boisterous red high above
And the doorways emit light as if Hopper had taken charge of the canvas,
The braying of trucks is no longer heard in the street—
Only an errant whistle ranges the trees in search of a wandering pet.
A basketball lies by a house, discarded along with its owner’s dreams.
And there is nothing unordinary here at all,
But I am in a poetic frame of mind,
And I think I will try to stay around a few more years for this.
Andy Oram
June 4, 2024