Echoes of Rose
Rose has a problem
She is growing up.
Growing dim.
The armor of pigment
protecting her heart
thins,
dissolving like chalk-people in the rain.
She goes to the doctor.
A natural ailment—he says—
happens to the best of us.
Nothing can be done.
Salvage what you can.
Rose goes on a hunt,
a pursuit of her pieces.
She goes to a basement—
that basement clothed
in beer cans and
exhaling pot smoke—
thinking she can grab
a sliver she left behind.
Next, to the rusted park bench—
the one where she got felt up
by addicted-to-cigarettes-Jimmy
as they shared a butt
he found in the dirt.
She continues, gathering
her slices of rainbow,
pocketing them.
Rose holds her shards tight,
struggling to savor their color.
Praying to be transmitted to times of
sandboxes and swings.
Nothing.
Nothing but the colors fading.
The splinters splitting into smaller
and smaller
fragments,
to be blown away by her breath.
Face it Rose,
you are growing up.
Try not to grow dim.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoesíaPoems I have written from years ago to now. For any of you looking for a love poem, you most likely will not find one here (unless I write one in the distant future because for some reason my brain short-circuited and thought I it would be a good id...
