The sky at dusk shallows old houses.
They trade chipped white for welcome masks
Of gray to hide their rough-locked texture-
No fight from those old joints. Struggling,
A frilly cloud mocks them like a schoolgirl.
A whirlwind of leaves dances at my feet.
Moist and sticky and fallen from the tree too soon,
They cling to my shoes like a forgotten promise.
Sad slippers as I shuffle home, trying to scrape
Them off like old paint from clipboard.