I've seen such yellow days.

They come in unlikely packages,

dropped in the middle of sadnesses.

On yellow days I remember patchwork squares of detail;



The roses (so stupidly blaring)

laid against a dark burnished casket.

(He would've objected to the yellow).



Kerchief over her head, veins in her feet like mountain ranges,

bare sandaled feet and worn head

sticking out absurdly from the slicker,

Woman on a bench in the rain,

Not enough raincoat, not enough yellow for the body.



And can't I see the sickly yellow kitchen light

dangling above the child

who is poking at a hill of macaroni and cheese.

He made it alone, eats it alone

and will wash all plates when he has finished.

But for the moment does not eat,

only stares.

The clock ticks strangely loud,

and each tick is a bite of his childhood.



Then there is the snapshot from my brain:

a winding road, holding two balls of crumpled metal in its curve,

and the frantic entourage of lights, moving bodies and machines.

The slippery when wet sign glares in the foreground.

all of its yellowness shows me the hopelessness

and it begins to rain.



Yellow days can come as dead canaries

Or, or

or as a young man in a cab

trying to bury his head in the upholstery,

alone once more, at night,

crushing the bouquet - petal by downy petal between his fingers,

blinded and deafened and numbed

by feeling everything

all at once.

and the little cab chugs into the yellow night,

and saffron leaks from every streetlight 'long the way.