The Bright Blue Room

The Bright Blue Room

Everyday
I don't remember the sky without    those man-made clouds - those airplane slug trails      that lead from concentration to dissipated        sky dander. But I remember the water.     Creeks and runoffs slither and coil      in my mind's three-ring scrapbook — that oily film that glittered    on the standing water -      that eerie foam near the rapids. I can feel the rough sandbanks     on my toes and the lurking fear of the cottonmouth nearby. The road noise moves him, and the slap of his body on the green-brown shallows snaps me out of myself. And I run like hell all the way to my bright blue bedroom     in that pink brick ranch and shiver with life.
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