Poem By Werner Schmidt

Our house was built in 1953
49 years before you and me.
Two high, frosted glass portholes
in the living room, face south.
The sun never enters them.
During daytime, they provide
a slide show of
heavenly shades of blue.
At sunset, I stand in the hall
and watch these eyes.
Light blue at first, darkening later
as our ship sinks into the night
until their eyelids become an
orange flavoured black.

Yes, nothing truly grows dark anymore
in the city. We should no longer
be afraid, then, right?

Oh, I'm crazy about the
quicksilver twilight
through these portholes
which see outside and in.

This evening
I watched our house eyes change
once more, which means
I waited too long to fasten the swimming pool cover
and now I do so in the not-quite-dark.
As I ratchet the cover nice and tight
and get up to go in
I sometimes see, like tonight, again
yellow hospitality from our home's inner light -
I want to be like that.
Golden life beams from the kitchen.
An invitation - come on in, Werner.

From the anonymous outside
everything is illuminated inside.
By day, the reverse is more or less true
isn't it?

A cool breeze
yanks me back to terra firma.
I look up one last time, for today.
Moon almost whole, the original yin yang.
Her arms hold smoky diamonds
through a veil of low variegated orange -
our concrete jungle's heaven.

Doves strike up a conversation
abruptly cut off as I close the kitchen door
and enter the glow.

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