Picnic: I remember the slope of clouds had offended you—
the ratio of pink to blue. Our evening set aside, lovers with
feet feathered in grass, a convo set apart for future use. I
made the comment, “It looks like markers, like permanent
markers.” You liked that. Markers so big, fashioned to
color our sky. I reminded you I went to high school just over
there—a finger aimed at distant tree lines. Below a moon,
exposed like a toe nail. I observed, but didn’t say.
“How much pink is enough pink?” I asked.
“When talking twilight, never enough,” You replied.
A pattern emerged; I sensed it when talking and collected
its meaning, in hope of closure from such a picnic, later.
And nowhere near enough pink in the sky, not to
go around, apparently—I observed, but didn’t say.
There were ancient strains of “Crabtree and Evelyn”
left in the mild breeze; leftover, no doubt, from that
very same tree line, in the distance—my finger still points it out.
A taste remembered: chocolate milk on the tongue, and a kiss
taken from closed eyes—with Rocky singing, a
marker of black, for redaction, later to be, I use so
big, an effort, maybe failed, to revert that night,
to something tense, something Reggie might
remember, or endorse—probably burn like a
redneck trailer—in effigy—either way.
Floor: I’ll introduce myself:
the walking, talking poem
of picnic grounds,
of picking bushes, of soccer fields at night.
Of unmentionable marker-stained fingers. Of ratios too thin.
Of pink on hands, in dark, wet places. Of sunsets.
Of girls easily offended.