I found an old childhood photo
of me cheerfully sitting on my dad's lap.
The image leaks a carroty color.
"Where are my crayons?"
I probably appealed from him.
If jazz music would have a hue,
it would be orange
like the shade of cigarette smoke
rising into a dim light
that turns into orangy musical notes
while Peyroux's “Dance me to the end of Love”
plays in the background.
My mind takes a trip
with a gentle orange highlighter
like dipping a whole page in neon paint
and unlocks my intellect into new cosmic distances.
I am the auburn book.
My car has orange lights
that warn other drivers
whether my body is turning left or right.
It also cautions when I’m in trouble.
“We know where you are heading
and we would not get in the way,”
the other motorists would say.
Orange illuminates direction.
Misdirection, on the other hand,
confuses my opponents
with intense orange hand wraps.
Do I win? Not surprisingly, nope,
but neither do I lose.
We’re both in bad shape,
I unleash 3-punch combos everywhere
while my rival counters most of them,
but we endure the exchange throughout the night.
We live in a square boxing ring.
I relax with orange tea.
It is a bundle of fresh herbs
cooked to a concoction.
It is like a masseuse
who touches my tongue.
It rubs out stress
and incapacitates me to euphoria.
My shadow shows a blissful figure.
A library, my boxing gloves,
sunflowers, a fruit, and a bag…
my entire world is a perky orange.
Self-actualization is a radical orange.
Don’t you ever try to erase it in my universe. ***
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| My orange hand wraps |
