It's nowhere near finished yet. This is probably the first third or so.
I settle back against the wall
Light a cigarette and brush the grit from shingles off my palms
Exhale; trace the tendrils with my eyes
Til they're scattered by the sultry August air.
City lights have stained the sky
To the east, a faint orange glow
Imbuing the shroud of darkness
With ephemeral shades of tangerine.
In the time frame of only heartbeats
I watched the moon rise to where it's halfway between
Outstretched wires of telephone lines
That sway gently like an abandoned swing set Mournfully beckoning a rider.