The number on the painted house
Still remains a single digit.
And there are a hundred more to cross.
On the blessed cycle of old times.
Small rooms with big appetites
Holding onto whatnot
Running into each other, canoodling.
From North to West,
Where the sun is about to set
The mother of daffodils
Sings temporal songs.
And the plants tell you stories
Of distant cousins. And xenophobes.
Of Gloria and James.
Of echoes. And castles.
Of treasure hunts. And treacherous hunts.
I come hither,
From the city of lost art
To deliver my radiant heart.
At the doorstep of adventure.
The group of friends beside the
Remind me of my own two friends
Who perhaps lie high
Somewhere in the city lights.
A bucket of lemonade will do.
To travel from the city of New Orleans
To some place unknown.