A perfect, deep red rose <br />Grows into the yard <br />Through the slats <br />Of a neighbor’s <br />Privacy fence. <br /> <br />The solitary slide trombone <br />Muted with a bathroom plunger <br />Plays songs in three-quarter time <br />From the back of a mahogany bar <br /> <br />He watches her brush her hair; <br />Pensive lips turn to a smile, <br />A silk strap slips from her shoulder, <br />And a moth flutters behind the sconce. <br /> <br />Pungent stacks of ancient books <br />In a basement corner of the library. <br />The pedals of a church organ. <br />A pin-up in the choir loft. <br /> <br />By the shoe-shine stand in the hotel lobby <br />The tall strong quiet black man <br />In the whitest tunic ever tailored, <br />Starched and crackling with gold epaulets, <br />Calls the little boy sir and inquires about his day. <br /> <br />Blue sage and an open road <br />A cherry ‘66 GTO in dusky blue <br />For sale, in a yard of tall grass <br />Next to the avocado green <br />Refrigerator listing to one side. <br /> <br />Programming in Basic with punch cards; <br />Adhesive tape holding things together <br />At the bridge of his nose. <br /> <br />Climb teetering boulder fields; <br />Linger at the top <br />As storm clouds gather below. <br />Descend late through fragrant lodge-pole pine <br />Beaten by hail that fell not five minutes before. <br /> <br />The random snap of pine sap <br />Burning in the stone fireplace; <br />And outside the window <br />A wasp-trap, almost full. <br /> <br />Black felt hat, leather vest, <br />Frayed red paper spewing <br />Loudly from a toy revolver. <br />Roy, Hoppy, Kimosabe, <br />The mailman hands down the box <br />Real slow, no tricks.<br /><br />Gary Witt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/collage-4/
