Hot lights on a Saturday night leave heaving bosoms desperate with wonder.
The piano man practices his lost art along the glitzy sidewalks of the
big city, seducing his keys for coin;
they surrender so softly to his tantalizing touch.
Inebriated explorers wander the bulwark of the running river, their gaze
drawn along its careless malaise.
Always, it reflects back the lights of the scene that can only exist
after dark.
The barge drifts along, with its captain standing at its edge, looking
back to the vagabonds looking back to him.
Eyelines cross, and the thought lingers of who will disappear first.
Greatest of the skyscrapers scratch the city heights, standing as the
crown jewels of triumph in man's dominion over nature, yet the solemn
trees watching over drunks and midnight lovers seem much taller.
Plucking vibrantly her proud strings, this guitar hero knows no songs
that ever had a name.
Her tender tendrils writhe around the fret board in ecstasy of this,
her feminine frame.
She's nature's mother now.