All surrounded by
chatter the likes
we have never seen.
A lone tree spreads its beams
up to the sky
in front of an antique memory;
shaping a factory.

I cast a question to a fake fire
that glitters and moves
with the unearthly heat
of an old lover
known in my teenage years.

I wonder where you are
and why we sit apart,
when the moon is a trumpeteer
and the sun is a herald.

And here,
In a small corner of a small place,
in the world, a small man
sings about love.

While a ballroom somewhere
in a nameless Metropolis
holds a God that prays
about money.

I wonder where you sit,
in the shade of broken plaster
spilling out soft Celtic rhyme
in the hands of Johnny Cash
and Jimmy Dean in miniature.

As a slow breeze comes,
a soft kiss runs
all for a lonely girl
with hands all curled
around directionless oars.

Their sky held by a trace
scented like a relic.

And somewhere in a furnace
the rest of us sit.
Somewhere in the middle
of Juxtapose street.