It’s not cold.
Frozen eyes, shuttered left, off kilter for Sunday morning’s churchyard calm, dazed and scarcely hunted.
It feels encrusted shut, my eye, right, no left–at the shake of a quiet mind’s head.
I’m not sick.
It’s just…just…not like a Sunday.
Swollen, itchy, red…no, I feel pink but not like a wisp of ultra violet setting rays into the dusk.
Like pulled cotton candy, taut, sticky, stretched to disappearing.
I have pink eye.
It’s red and puffy, and the itch that can’t be scratched for the contagion that she brings.
Do I call in, call up, call out this small disease, this lodged discomfort, virulent invader?
I look it up.
Warning signs, good sense and no regrets; I confess to all I anticipate in a day’s walk-about,
“I…I have pink eye. No, I think my hands touching my eye, touching you.” Can I see you without touching you?
Will your money be repulsed, sweet-toothed craving not crusty but cultured,
the dissonance like shimmied NO, a gulp, grimace and gag.
I should stay.
But I go, and I lie without guilt, smile without repercussion, moan without regret and leave, sailing
like the marine layer over our beach city, puffy, cloudy, windy and cool-breezy could care less.
I’ve planted seeds now.
The growing season well nigh past still yields a muddy crop, sunken, aphid-riddled, shriveled dawn.
I took camera digitally clicked snapshots.
Thick waist sloped into fleshy hips, fortresses to meaty buttock questions to the sheets.
Am I asleep?
Or am I just pretending you loved me kindly, tenderly with your chestnut grin and molten eyes,
clear, clean and molasses.
No, not pink. Ink. Like night, pintip pupil black.