The illusion works
better than orange,
sodium streetlights.
All I could ever wish for.
Heartfelt
and hearty.
Domestic bliss, a pedestal
alone in a crowd of views.
Sedate homes, well maintained, simple lives.
Proper and proportioned children,
husbands and wives.
To gardens, to front gates, my footfalls
encroach as an outsider; the sprawls,
dynasties, varnished
cars, smart flowers
warming suns, settling rains,
hopeful hours.
The façade hit me.
I saw orange bulbs
bent on lighting rooms.
These unavailable dreams
matter
then don’t matter,
as there is brokenness beneath
community surfaces.
Collecting, combining, my pieces.
Drifting off, my soul signs new leases.
To water, clean, more than refreshing,
as grains emerge from husks by threshing.
So, I mean something.
We all shatter.
Spirits can rise,
surfaces clatter.