These are days without mechanical thought.

These are roads that are dusty

With or without wind.

Or footsteps.

A temporary reprieve from the exhausting thoughts of

Expensive paint-cans,

&

Their infinite shades.

Or pondering where the stray  hubcaps from  speeding cars

End up once they roll away on their own.

During an afternoon excursion.

(Quite possibly having founded   a world of chrome  and broken spokes, either above or below the current macrocosm, complete with a Parliament  and overdue library books. )

Tangled vines and aggressive palmettos

Choke out growing trees that have miraculously  grown up through discarded tires,

&

The  waxy bays that smell of vanilla,

Out of place among

So many living oaks.

That will eventually smell of sawdust.

Floating soda cans are not litter,

But  ships at sea,

Setting sight  on the fountain in the middle.

The pinnacle of this reservoir.

Accompanied by a lone gourd,

That has been carelessly thrown overboard.

All these vessels,

&

Others

Attempting to

Dodge the treacherous turtle shells that

Have laid so many other metaphors to rest.

Off beyond some of the other brush,

Is a strategically placed rope swing.

Held by a knot that is

Tighter than any knot before or after it,

Tighter than anything that will ever be.

Capable of carrying

Calvary and

Carpenter ants alike,

Over a dried up canal,

Past the tops of trees,

To splash into the  milky stars.

It would pay dividends  to acknowledge

Two people.

One sitting on one side of the lake,

On a bench with plenty of gum underneath,

Whose line of sight is obscured by the roaring fountain,

&

Soda cans that have now started to sink.

And on the other side ,

(Separated by equal parts water and space and exasperation)

The other sits,

On a picnic bench,

Eating nothing,

But

Reading something.

Neither of them move,

&

It is better that way.

Because

This story within a story  could only be told better,

By an artists rendering.

Pounding and scraping can be heard off in the distance,

&

Excavation is underway nearby,

Machines that look

&

Sound like dinosaurs

Dig through the bedrock and

The

Bottle-caps

To unearth  ancient pipelines,

Dilapidated conduits that took eons to crystallize.

&

Replace them with more modern couplings in mere seconds,

Resistant to  both rust and to fairy-tales.

To better provide fuel at the expense of fossils that

Continue to mount,

In record numbers.

All this noise

Off so far in the distance,

Still

Reverberates at the park,

All this noise,

Off so far in the distance,

Still relevant at the park.

Compelling bread crumbs originally left for the

Ducks,

Remain still,

Left to tremble  on top  of the soft grass where it was forgotten in the first place ,

Like hesitant popcorn.

The opportunistic cranes,

See this and consider this as a meal.

  To have

Din

&

Dinner in the same day,

(Especially if it is  just stale bread)

Would be  an outrageous bargain,

&

That is to say nothing of  an open box of donuts,

Left to be further baked by this days sun

&

Many others after it.

Left momentarily as a decoration in a park,

That is severely lacking in anything besides recreation,

&

Bathrooms.

There are an adequate number of bathrooms in paradise.