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.