Winding like fiberglass earthworms through the streets,
twisting the words of Pretenders into laughter,
the golden rays halo your mischievous eyes, crystalline with resolve,
a jet pack lifting our dampened spirits above the steel centipede,
our mundane wagon train; and the light, anterior to the tunnel
gleams with stoplights, green well past the milky way,
the tiny flecks of gold along the path, breadcrumbs leading me
along a winding path where two wrinkled forms recline on a cliché
porch swing, white picket fence overrun by yellow grass,
their faces are familiar melted candles with massive upward creases
above their mouths, they sit in nostalgic repose, remembering
how a Valentine’s traffic jam couldn’t put a dent in their momentum.
: andy l. kubai : writer : 