Water drips lazily from this 20th avenue bungalow
Big windows to watch the construction going on across the street
I wonder what ethnicity the family will be
The workers are Indian
I wonder why they choose to put such a bland front
Onto their house
They spent so much money on the house, clearly
Then they barf
In the mirror an orchid droops from it’s fully bloomed weight
Gifted from an angel on the birth of flight
Coil of heavy duty wire rests restlessly upon the couch
bringing husband and wife about a foot from each other
But they’re not sad, they’re free to explore
Attached at the hip
Making endless impressions upon the fabric they rest
A guitar lonely and mute awaits its rehabilitation
Strung and strum and actively attached
Waiting it will
As music mystically pours out one tiny little speaker
Tea gets cold being ignored and fully saturated
In a tall mug that’s too tall to finish
On an old Ikea working desk with wheels
Light wood and dull gray faux metal tubes
Work begins at last
Diamonds cut deep