Riding in to write about a bright
yellow color for a psychic’s color catalog
I think how life breaks
my children’s hearts in various ways every day.
Someone doesn’t call doesn’t like
someone back someone feels like the weird kid
who just hangs out with his dad.
All red ideas. I pedal on.
Remember the huge beanbag chair
back in that corner by the art books?
I might finally sit in that baby today
although it’s brown—I wish
it were yellow. I just want to find out
who painted that stick-figure Don Quixote
black and white except the yellow sun
on Don horse and windmill.
Something about that hunched
delusional hero and the forever white
at the edge of combustion.
Dwarf star. I grew up
in a yellow house. My parents drove
a yellow Malibu Classic wagon.
I once slept ten hours in the backseat
woke up in a Kansas
City parking ramp and when I
stood it was a hundred degrees.
The world passed very quickly
through every yellow
on its way to a white beyond consciousness.
Heat signature. I want the pain
to be worth it when they think someday
about yellow I want my children to know
Rothko brushed it over a thin layer
of rabbit collagen glue
to make us feel we might fall in and up
and if they think about the rabbits
everywhere continually born and dying
mainly violently they’ll understand
all yellow burns through
into what wide outside.