The Only Thing that's Red

Here the sky is crimson and ash. Skyscrapers stab out each star. Smoke sifts from lips of business men swinging briefcase buckles. They rest bags with trite memos on train cars rolling over flicked flotsam. My wooden pane faces waves. Washed-ashore children from the neighborhood over carry plastic shovels and sandcastle-molds. A hundred miles across this lake is a chair carved in another century with a red tassel throw that covers an age spot. Here I watch mothers drop off toddlers across the street. Snot sickened mouths scream into cashmere cardigans. A stoplight marks the uphill curve in the road. Its flashing beacons illuminate the yard’s sign made out of building blocks. Tulips turn up each year in our front planter. So does the man who sells apples door to door. Last year he slipped my mom a rose. Sometimes I want more than this sky.