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