snug between the blinds,
I peer past the harsh glow
of my nine to five,
twenty four seven
seven eleven
one twenty resting pulse,
barely audible
over the tap tap tapping
of my tired fingers
a crimson cardinal,
perched in the low brush
crimson, the color of blood
surging between my legs
before the doctor
suggests I freeze my eggs
crimson, the color of life erupting
and death forthcoming
crimson, the color of the bible at the Motel 6
carefully placed next to the remote,
carelessly flipping between soulless
portraits of them and self …
self, who is not them,
who could never be them
crimson, the color of youthful confidence
screaming pick me
in a bed of cut flowers,
still unaware of the pruning shears
crimson, the color of a cardinal
curious about the strange woodpecker
in a glass cage tap tap tapping
in search of meaning
3-14-23
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