Everything the camera can see, it doesn’t show
about this ordinary street that wasn’t quiet
a couple hours ago.
In foreground, one door hangs from a last hinge,
another sprawls on the front porch floor,
echoing that hearts were singed
either by love’s impromptu riot
or shattered in methodical war
over that smashed-to-bits radio.
On the lawn’s barren husk,
up against commerce’s concrete wall,
with half-attempt at shady pleasantry
and from which dying birds might call,
a street-wise, disheveled tree,
blistered by the day’s remaining heat,
leans into the depth of dusk.
Within the frame, neat,
There’s a bit more about this scene
not described in the black and white,
those two between which
share every colour –
null to bright.
Friends,
linger with me in this moment collected,
stare into what is, by its absence,
resurrected.
Robert On The Air 