The brush is still in the garage
on the cold, cement floor
beside the empty tin of paint,
its sides eternally dripping
with a dried, buttercup hue.

The walls which we smothered with color
are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints
after a day in the mud. A mess to us,
the results of battles, safaris,
and space travels to them.

I could paint over the marks,
start over fresh and show off to friends.
But I think I’ll let it be.
No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting,
these four walls have still brightened many days.

There has been roaring laughter,
divided by a few screaming matches
that have made the dog whimper.
This room has seen much of our lives,
and life cannot be painted over so easily.

So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.

At night, breaths turn steady as thoughts run fast
through my head sticking out of the covers.
Hazy memories emerge from my past
of playgrounds, prom gowns and former lovers.

A final twitch; reality ceases.
My bed is gone. A sailboat takes its place,
somehow gliding through fuchsia glass pieces
underneath a moon made of a clock face.

I turn to see an old flame that burned out,
when suddenly fire rains from the skies.
I walk to the edge and jump with no doubt -
into the deep pink shards my body flies.

I jolt upright, back where my sleep started,
as details fade of dreamlands uncharted.

Sloppy stuttering. Wringing hands
attached to awkward arms at made-up angles.
Surely the bead of sweat on my back
will betray my attempt at a
cool and collected costume.

Eyes dart from the the corner of the room to
my straw, stained a tried-too-hard red,
back to you. You are the sun, burning my vision.
Is it more rude to stare,
or to ignore your pupils penetrating me,
questioning my sincerity?

Inhibitions start to waver as
the bubbles from my *** and Coke course
through my veins, into my heart, and
come out of my mouth as girlish giggles.

The flirty alter ego pushes me aside.
My lips are now scarlet and proud.
Your eyes scream desire and I know
that she is in control of us. She places my hand
on yours. You lean in and place your lips on hers,
while I sit inside my own mind, wishing that
I could feel anything but envy.

Perhaps one day she’ll stay
when the bubbles fade.
And I’ll float away,
propelled by my pounding heart.

Addresses,
one by one,
fill my day.
156 South Street,
17 Riddle Road,
84 Arkansas Avenue.

Red light.
Green light,
keep going...

Each stop I step out
like it’s my own home,
cradling a box in my arms:
a present for my lady.
But the door opens,
and a stranger stares back.
Unfamiliar eyes, but
the same color as the ones that
are trapped in my past.

I smile,
she signs,
I leave.

The truck is full today.
Hearts hand-drawn on brown packaging,
with red ribbons and bouncy bows.
I can forget if I keep my eyes on the road.
But the roses reek,
wrapping their fragrance
around me like a noose.

Forced
to play Cupid.
I drive on...

Dusty books lay side-by-side
like aged soldiers, still ready to march.
Except the war of the shelves is not physical but mental,
and the battleground resides in ourselves.

Studying students retreat with sighs of surrender.
Tests are no longer a measure of knowledge,
but a measure of life lost to professors’ orders,
glued to rows of chairs with rigid backs.

In the past, this was a place of wonder
where children dragged their mothers by the hand,
longing to discover adventure and mystery
when imaginations spat out images of pirates and princesses.

Now, the aisles of books bring despair,
just more work in a world without play,
where we treat text like landmines of ink
rather than the golden treasure that words used to be.

But the soldiers on shelves still march on,
still full of adventure and mystery,
waiting for ally hands to grasp their spines,
caress their pages and drink in their words.