Thursday, February 26, 2015

Cerulean Dream / The Name of a Poet

I was her passenger
on a dark blue freeway.

"I want your last name."

"Really? ...but, why?"

"Because it sounds better. It's cool.
It would just look good on my work."

"On you're writing, you mean?"

"Yea! I could carry on the name.
Whenever I publish something
your name will be there, too.
You know?"

I was baffled by her proposal, but
more so of her ambiguous enthusiasm,
the seriousness of her tone,
the earnest of desire.

As she steered the old Corolla
around muted blue bends,
a dusty sky churned behind
ashy blue mountains.

I glanced over at her.
She had that subtle smirk of hers,
a purple tank top,
her skin softly aglow.

All around was a cerulean shade
save for the flicker
of indicative red lights

"I guess I just don't understand.
You only want my name?"

Pressing on the pedal
she bent her smile
and quietly 
burned down the Caldecott 

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