I am galloping around like a wildebeest,
all snarl and hoof beat.
We’re attic-bound &
restless. The water’s been high for nights now.
Samson saved the red plastic boat,
tied it to the dock // past tense spindle.
Past tense red, too. Every now & again,
I wild-canter over to the boat to check the knot.
Tight, tight, tight.
It necks up to the attic ledge with the inadequate urgency
of a sweaty child reaching for off-limit snacks.
Neighborhood waves thrust the plastic against
the hardwood of the attic floor decking.
Trigger must be those pale-skinned kids from
down the street again, sons-of-bitches.
Always blowing things up. Just to see the
greased up Day-Glo of somebody’s mother’s joke on “orange.”
That ain’t orange. I remember orange.
I chortle-chew some dried leather &
look greedily out gin-colored finger thin windows.
The mess of our making is everywhere.
Sea up to roof peaks. Goodbye.
A boondoggled pup nips at my heels. He’s thirsty for
real red, for deep summer tree green, for a wet drink of rainbow.
We growl in froth-frenzy & come
as close as we can to dirt-thrashing for bruises.
Anything for one last glimpse of indigo’s insistence,
for a thick streak of borderline blue,
For the swell and fuck-up of purple.
I’ll tell you what. Snout down,
I narrow the slits of these sun-bleached eyes;
My tears mash deep in the marrow of my teeth.
And I know right now,
I’d kill for purple.
I want it so bad I can taste it.
