Smoker - Denver Harbor

it was once a neighborhood you would watch from the safety of your neighborhood. Once a place where children could run back alleys at night. Parents at work and children at home with the lock unrealised. Ship's horns heard from the Port of Houston. Port Channels were a bike ride away and packing imagery fueling dreams. Hobos in tents along channel coastline with no speculation on children who ran by.
God channeled through uncommon people who did not have perfect wardrobes, haircuts,upbringing and republican affiliations. One damn good TV set and a worn kitchen floor and souls that knew possibility was a possibility. Puffy cotton clouds could be heavenly homes,viking ships and birds from a childs view in the backseat of the Ford. Loves kisses were deep passionate moments when you were as safe there as in your mother's arms.