Out of the bedroom window I looked
At the story seamed like paint splatters before me
Squandered in Monday grays and heavy lidded beams,
Skinny trees half pirouetting with the Northern master ,
Wet linens like rainbow dilettantes in their nylon pole slumber beds,
The wide sheet that overlooks all now turns in orange luster
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)

An electric post stands above the swampy rice fields
A modern mammoth, the millennial miser
Perched in its lumpy wires birds mirrored each other like a pair of stilts
Whispering like Romans in spite of a forgone Caesar (political and free)
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)

The night creeps like the batting crickets in the yard
Harmonizing in crooked ears a silly little hum
What I had heard when I was ten, as how everything had
Become known strangers scraping at the back of my pendulum
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I see, I see)

Out of the bedroom window I looked
At the story seamed like tell tale signs before me
The spit on a once young fool's clarity
Sealed in tight frames perennially set in a single motion
The old withering passenger squirms in his dinghy
Tides of chaos hooding that rage against the universal engine
That mundane truth from the pink sill (I'll see, I'll see)