The Blues

[Warm Rain by Debra Hurd]

Surrounded by mustard night
speckled concrete under my heels
grit between my toes.
Blue blue fog that sounds of guitars
and saxophones and crying pianos
curls into a finger that pokes its way
into my ear and twists a path through my brain
leaving residue that tastes like vanilla ice cream
and fear, winding out the other side, leaving
a clear path for the wind and the yellow jackets
to fly in and out, stomping and turning around between
my eyes, behind my nose, like a dog trying to
find the perfect spot to fall asleep--round and round
until they melt a little hummock to curl inside of
and dream of angry red fields laced with dark
blue-black fear. Their dreams make me sway,
make my tongue taste of lemonade and grapes,
as my gritty toes grip the wet pavement
and the owls sob in their sleep, and one lone man
opens his window onto the street because
the colors are keeping him awake