Out by the taxi driver's garden
the children play, the Happy Land.
Now a open gate where horses beckon
with the swish of their manes.
I cannot hear what the are saying.
As the speed of light through the dense dirt on the window
muffles that game they're playing.
Another noise in the distance.
A plane flies west as the sky clears and I see
through my foggy frames a thousand light years ahead.
I torn my neck and play the same game but in my music
and my shadow.
No need for light
or a necessity to sham
as naked under the streetlight
I play in the rain.