On 7th

There is a house I thought abandoned, on 7th street near where the fateful car crash happened a few months ago, with a large magnolia tree growing over the eves and thorns of its small plot. Yesterday, my house became too small to hold me, and the hours of work sat on my conscious, taunting me through the setting sun. I went strolling through the neighborhood, flaneur indeed, so that my evening was more than sleeping off the weight of the working day. The magnolia tree was bursting with white outstretched hands, blooms as large as my head and I couldn’t help but covet one for my yellow kitchen table. Sneaking into the yard, I climbed the embankment to an unopened flower sleeping on a low branch. It fell into my hand with little effort, the weight and color of a small dove nestled in my palm. It smelled like childhood, an intoxicating aroma of summer. As I trotted back to the sidewalk, I saw a pair of eyes from the seemingly abandoned house watching me. A black dog, witness to my thievery. Sorry, owners of the magnolia tree on 7th, for my thieving hands; Bagheera and I are enjoying it.




Bagheera and the magnolia; curiosity harmless, this time.