B&W: But Oh, the Dreams

by Steven J. Serafiani

The tangerine horizon set
her boudoir aglow
she sat her tea on the ring on
the desk she painted on
her cigarette matching the factory across
the brick city
she contemplated Trotsky and a
man named Stanley,
the one in the vintage wool that
she served in an apron coffee black daily
her hair twirling in the
breeze on the balcony
she stared into the windows sewn
together with linens
the couple that fought every night now
at the kitchen table silently
eating over easy
eyes gazed to the lamp below to
see a kid on a bike,
a halo alone
and the newspaper trucks roared and
squealed every ten feet
and the garbage trucks beeped and
shouts from strong armed gloves recede
and the tea pot whistled and
begged to fill again
as she retired to her bed to dream of when.