The sun, a glass marble shines on innocense.
I lie in short grass, looking into the future.
The moon- a shiny biscut covers the clouds.
And midnight bleeds into childhood dreams..
The watch hands turn into a foreign country.
The war passed, I standown in rags.
Looking thru the back glass of a Rambler Station Wagon.
Childhood dreams escape as the dust.
I smell Evening in Paris.
The wrinkles in skin and shirt pressed by time.
I lie in short grass, looking into the past.
Joe Howell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evening-in-paris/
