In the arena’s abrasive fluorescent
glow, the skin pulled taut on the back of my hand turns yellow
as the golden
moon that chuckled as I chased backyard fireflies, yellow as the neon 
mask I wore during pandemic days, yellow as trophies
won and lost, yellow as bright crayon
smudges on my fingertips, yellow as Ticonderoga pencils
sharpened, snapped, and dulled, yellow as jaundiced
textbook pages that crinkled in my hand like weathered 
memories, yellow as the amber
cord that hangs around my neck.  

I glance back at that glaring light, at my skin agleam 
with yellow, and I know time has not flown by like a hasty canary
flitting from branch to branch, but it has wrapped me in its embrace
like an endless summer’s
day whose light stretches and swells
until nightfall when the sun finally cozies
into the horizon, leaving the still-waking world with an afterimage
of its glow that seemed to last a lifetime.