Back then, the world existed in 4 minute slices,
radio friendly, and capable of being shined
with the right spit. We never listened to
the words because we trusted the censors, not
realizing they were dying like the rest of us.
Pastries tasted like sugar, and funny colors
didn’t matter in a beverage. This morning,
I dumped out my leftover intentions in
the parking lot so I could recycle the cup. Maybe
a flower was trying to grow from that concrete.
I followed a man to the stairs—give me
the confidence of an old man in shorts
and sandals, black socks worn without irony,
and an overwhelming need to chat with strangers.
I was never that unable to question others’ desire
for my company, and I have mania. Inside,
everything is animal, including my shirt. Every
day, I forget the color of the sky until I sneak
out and ask someone. Most times, they look
from one to the other and shrug. I finally
petitioned to get a screen put up. It flashes “blue
and sometimes gray” from dawn until dusk.
I still ask because I don’t like to believe. Back
then, the sky was always forgetting me. Lightning
asked my name at parties, so it knew who to avoid.
Now, I see it on my morning commute. Ugly
tie and khakis. Sleeveless blouse the wrong
color for its skin. Its sister Darla got married
and divorced a long time ago. She’s back
from the coast, but no one seems to know
which one. Kids and debt. When I catch the last
elevator with the lightning, it’s shaking its head,
shocked at the state of things, like us all.
Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of thirty books, including his newest poetry collection, The Bottle Episode, and his latest novel The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.