Behind the hysterical bark of a car-chasing terrier
Ada emerges from the High Street Station.

Her eyes emit their genteel music,
her colored wind greeting him.

They sat watching a small pocket of trees
all alone amongst the concrete.

She favors his artsy crew
sailing through sunken dreams
rising like birds upwards over a mountain.

Her warm hands felt like braille in the night
bringing his atrophic fingers to a fervent rouse.

Their droopy eyelids scintillate
sharing tales of the jazz age
sleepy from nostalgia's absent father.

A bit of cigarette falls from his sweater

sheepishly embracing her goodbye.

You dear, silly, man you.

Voice trailing towards the F train,

a colorful gust following her down the steps. 

RW Lang is a graduate of the Hartt School of Music. Bronx bred, he stays in his happy place rambling prose with aspirations of an MFA in Poetics. Robert tweets and tumbles everyday cadences.