From My Grandmother's Window

Motorcycles fly so fast by
They paper cut the sky

Leaving just enough time so

The girl and boy who walk towards each other
Can gently bump, slide each other their number

Passing

Vendors hold worlds in walls
Piled cucumbers the hills
Oranges the sun

Scooped

In the bags of old ladies
Holding out their hands in front of
Long lines of cars
Black Exhaust

Trailing

Lovers on a wooden bench
Her heart fills up her cheeks
As he turns his chest

Blocking

Smoke, gently writing stories in the air
From cigarettes held in a teenager’s fingertips
Slowly lifting it up to his rosy lips

All of it nestles in a reflecting bubble
That gently floats
Up to my grandmother’s window.