It could be still as a picture but it can’t help to dance,
The breeze helps it move, along to the airs performance.
To the left of me it is,
Peaking at my screen,
As I type on my keyboard what it is I see.
I see a mark of imperfection that doesn’t skew the view,
From a lazy painter not covering what’s needed of what I look through.
As the sun rests across from me,
As it’s not my turn,
When the sun rises higher than my pavement will burn.
Trash cans await their owners return,
Giving thieves a signal that no one is home.
Retirees walk the neighborhood getting in their body flow,
Waving slightly as they move on the go,
Looking in windows to see what they can know.
Cars from the street play in the background,
Not aware that we’re here,
Because we barely make a sound.
Dr. Seuss would be proud of these built establishments,
We’re from right out of his book,
It’d look like an accomplishment.
Blues, yellows, pinks and green,
Every Who has a house,
Yet the Grinch is unseen.
As I gaze out the glass,
Knowing that there’s more,
I appreciate the scenery for it’s the home I longed for.