Roses breathe gray skies,
and swings sigh,
long after Janie has gone home
for tea and crumpets
and mothballs like cataracts
every night at half-past five.

A hobby horse
abandoned by blue eyes
canters through smoke wreaths
and cracked reflections.
Young tongues savor the hiss
of four-letter words
cheap at the corner store.
Last night we picnicked
on peach-fuzz flesh
and unbuttoned pinafores.

Snail trails glisten on the trellis,
and moonlight, frail as lace,
dances with Japanese lanterns.
Ivy smirks, a somber bass,
and the teeter totter creaks,
pining for hopscotch
on marmalade afternoons.