The Bright Blue Room

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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