Isn't it odd—the first six
or seven colors were
given to us
there in the ooze puddling
underneath Grandpa
Joe’s red F-150—
the rest, we have been left
on our own ever
since to dream about
through dilated mind's eyes
gauging candlestick strangers on
Edward Hopper nights
to pick-up piecemeal from the street-
side markets of Florence
and France
to taste in the igneous curry sauce
the boss's wife coaxed us
into trying
or, to listen for, driving home
from the two-bedroomburial place
of a memory
dewy and alone, in the midst of
static night, after all the stations
have signed off—or died out.
