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Rooftop
Provoking the illusion,
my squinted eye drew a distant line
between my mug of coffee
and the commercial one
on that building- faking height-
they look alike in size.
The sun is playing
his deluded game of hide and seek.
Seems as just this morning I wrote
"last one"
on my box of cigarettes.
I blew, pretending,
fresh morning air into the open,
studying the smoke,
coming from the chimney
of the tobacco plant near by.
City's periphery looks bleached
from the beams of early shine.
Silly gabling pigeons-
linked as decorative statues
all around the top edge-
are listening for the church bells, down
on the circle,
announcing breakfast.
Having one last lick of the terracotta roofs,
the blazing heat
is pushing a flood of warmth
around my feet.
Created by the boulevards,
the depth beneath me
forced a feeling of a canyon,
where a river of people
kick
the sidewalk's dust.
Holding a hand above my forehead,
saluting to the scorching light,
I fantasized around the view:
If I force my sight I can almost see
the longest bridge in miles,
connecting town side
with the vineyard' hill.
The sequence of clouds at the horizon line
reduced to some exotic islands,
and behind the mountain
I can hear the sea;
or is that music from the street,
and all the terraces
are opera seats?
Suspecting lunchtime is over passed,
I leave my rooftop travels,
as the noise below is peeking up
a glance
of the late day marvels.
