Spiced Flowers Line the Street




The place where I live is gently seasoned.

Traditional flavors waft through the air.

Freshly picked tomatoes coupled

with the harsh, yet soft, aroma of basil

and smoky crisps of cackling fire.




Fire, like the warm heat the two elderly

from over the way share.

Fire, like the dimly lit street lamps

throwing shards of shadow across the street.

They spread shade upon the debris:

glass, pebbles,

all upon tired feet who ache,

yet line up and dance along to the sharp stereo

across the street.




Where I live is softly brushed by sweetness.

Flowing rains of flowering vines reign,

spicing the bland home

into a powerful splash of varied colors

perched upon the obscured balcony.

Laced with sugary greenery

harboring sour flowers within,

rickety homes sway

with the quietly sweeping breeze.




 Various forms of ladybugs claim their land,

whizzing and soaring from porch to porch.

The parrots from the house next door wail

in a broken pitch,

like the winding cracks in the pavement.




Each half supports each other, cross hatched,

underneath the surface with cold steel beams.

Unfinished, much like the beams that hold us all together

to support one another.