You stand in the threshold.
Black coffee pools puddle in
the white saucers of your eyes.
Tan sand skin, mahogany hair sneaking out from under the skull cap to watch
our finger-painted personalities embrace, smearing the
bold, distinct hues into
muddy everything.
The smell
Of wet autumn leaves pressed to the sides of streets
bark crackling, worms slinking throught moist gardens,
Cigar serenading the curvy glass of port wine
Attic floors smothered with mothballs and made up stories
Dirt baking in the African sunrise
Bitter-crusted bread like sticky stones in the oven
Incense sticks, Crushed tea leaves and raw sugar
Grime trapped in rickety alleys of shower tiles
Pirate ships and bodies and
Water-worn wooden chests locked like steel.
We push our colors back into their proper tones
Labeled in plastic tubes in the preschool craft cabinet
Mahogany bending under the folds of your ribbed cap
As you step into winter,
As my paint waits.