Now She’s Wearing Riding Boots
The more the same pairs of pants
you have in different shades of pastel,
the deeper and more slipshod
your walk-in closet of rabid vexation, lady.
And in a little while we’ll all crack
under the medium of medium,
neutral hue blue used to draw
the crispest river in heaven,
the rainbow trout yawning mid-spawn
and January air the fish just jumped through
barely rippled by its post-breach fadeout.
Too much we’re left lacking the right color,
the panic in the face caused by a charging squirrel,
the scum-covered dandelion fermenting in the jar,
sea spray delivering the knock-knock
punch line to the screaming beachhead.
Orange you glad we dialed up air support?
Orange you glad our savage pixels
are loosed occasionally to stretch their teeth,
a pack of after-hours wolves howling
inside a dying mall’s food court.