On a flower-potted balcony,
over the creaky,
cracky wooden railing.
Behind some thorny,
yellow rose bushes,
just in front of the tall,
line of pine trees that,
border the perimeter,
towers a green,
grimy garbage dumpster.

A gaze towards the sun,
a quick glance at the clock.
6:43 in the evening,
and sunlight’s
shadows drop lower,
just past the receptacle.
A patch of splendid,
sunshine dances,
upon golden tufts,
of trash poking through,
the greasy garbage,
next to a hilly mound,
of emerald green grass.

Shadows sojourn,
speckling the sparkling,
sun-splashed plain.
Now 6:47,
and the trash doesn’t,
look so bad after all.