Mr. Mascarenhas' quiet walk

Half past dusk,
Mr. Mascarenhas walked down the avenue of underlit palm trees,
the parking lot that was softened by night's silence,
the asphalt yielding,
memory slipped away,
a new world was being born,
he smiled quietly to himself: this had happened before;
storms of unknown smells would crowd around the watches of his mind,
confusing reason's sentinels,
unleashing fancy's insane rearguard.
A minute ago, a Honda Civic,
a second later a maroon dented cadillac with white plastic hood,
his father's presence,
a hole in the sky
a giant step from planet to planet,
a whisper of secrets amongst the branches,
morse code in the sunshine on the dancing leaves
small worlds blooming,
half realized rainbow fawns sipping from the cool lake
quiet in the craggy shadows of the far away.
Mr. Mascarenhas had the longest whiskers that night,
the sharpest tone of utter confidence,
the largest expanse of space in his soul, reaching out painfully to al that could not be seen but smelt at the other end of the universe.
Why I still love and live.