There are still some blue
spots left
“It makes a difference
who you know,” she says.
Her voice is an echo
she can’t pinpoint her favorite song
and then today:
Two left feet.
Woke up on the wrong side.
Trusted the dark sidewalk
while the last of the blue
Could never, ever be the same
blue again–
or could it?
Is the blue color of the sky a science?
Is it always the same CYMK,
Always the same RGB?
She might never wonder this,
the dark sidewalk
might hold surprise.
Roots, trash.
She might fall, never again ponder
her favorite song title.