I long to live in the Starburst orange house
with the cherry red tin roof that tinks every
time the rain falls nourishing the earth and
awakening the spirits. You know, the one that
sits upon the top of Morris Street with the
overgrown lawn and the gnome watching over
the purple petunias with silence.
But I come from the North. A place where
psychedelic bananas explode with the yellows
of the Sun. Where snow falls from the ground
towards the sky in tornado like vortexes and I
sit imprisoned behind personified string
cheese structures, wishing for 49 Morris Street.
