Old iron stairs climb up the brick.
The summer heat is heavy, thick.
A plastic pot holds dry brown dirt.
The metal skin is bruised and hurt.
Rusty gold in the dying light.
Catching fire before the night.
Searing red on a metal stair.
Hanging heavy in the air.
A crooked spout drips one slow bead.
A forgotten and a thirsty weed.
The orange paint is peeling thin.
Where the salt and the grit begin.
Rusty gold in the dying light.
Catching fire before the night.
Searing red on a metal stair.
Hanging heavy in the air.
Across the street the diners hum.
The midnight rush is about to come.
The grease is thick on the griddle plate.
The watering can must stand and wait.
Rusty gold in the dying light.
Catching fire before the night.
Searing red on a metal stair.
Hanging heavy in the air.
The sun dips low past the city line.
The copper glow is a holy sign.
It holds the glare of a distant star.
While the engines roar from a passing car.
Rusty gold in the dying light.
Catching fire before the night.
Searing red on a metal stair.
Hanging heavy in the air.
Catching fire. Burning bright.
Rusty gold.
