In consideration, of the town hall clock.
A cotton chore-jacket, a thin break against the mid day cool, cloaks my upper body. Free, save the encumberance of a black hardcover tucked under the upper section of a right arm bent at the elbow. My left hand rests easy in the pocket of my slacks, and a deliberate stroll sets me off through the quiet garden. I hear little, save the gentle constant of the water feature to my south, and the occasional flurry of traffic passing the through the intersection off somewhere distant.
I reach a wooden bench backing into verdant groves shaded under old figs, and find myself basked in weak half light moulded by a gray blanket of cloud. The glare is oppressive, and as I open the hardcover on my crossed knee the white page burns my sight in hurried contrast.
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The orange glow of her bare chest. Pallor and cherry red nipples stiff under the slight pinch of fingertips. The angle of her breast, falling gently towards that curved belly, slightly swollen in menstrual occupancy. Slight goosebumps, shiver across her chest despite the clammy constant of skin to skin. Fuzz fills my head in reds. I stretch towards her across the linen and kiss each breast individually, listen to the gentle ensuing moans and feel excitement rush inside waves of blood.
The dull patter of evening rain arrests attention just brief, and adds something significant to the flow.
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The man's boots clicked along the wooden floorboards loose in their nailed homes. The sounds announced his arrival.
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The boots heel clicked sharp down the hallway- the wooden floorboards reverberating in solid echo.
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The mans arrival announced itself in the hollow echo of boot heel's clicking along the hardwood flooring.
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Dazed and confused the click clack rang out above the hollow whisp of kettles bellow - the machines pause announced the kettles call answered.
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Verse despite verse - form from the void. Prose as a concept - utilised to imagination, loose understandings justified.
Can I tell you a story?