Riveted, my eyes, to the red swing,
pumping, pulling, pushing
By cold fingers imagined
but the movement real.
The palette of neon green chartreuse
challenges the vicious blue of the sky.
My altogether put together student would say God clashes,
no sense of style, but she wouldn’t say it aloud.
The thought was written all over her
Cave etchings scribbled on the sides of white scrapers.
I am not speaking truthfully.
A civilized people painted these black lines and circles,
but I do not understand and so
dismiss their meanings as archaic.
Safe in my ignorance?
Beyond the emaciated once leafy arbor
a pleather couch soaks up some rays.
Can a piece of furniture really smile?
The orange cushions, like maybelline lips,
smirk at me from several hundred feet within reach
of the glass and there is my answer.
Creeping up to the sunbather I see a cat,
equally as orange sniffing the big lips
curling its tail lightly around the chin waiting for a kiss.
The cat looks up, squints at the sun
and with a dismissive sniff retreats
to where I can no longer see him.