These Hazy Days

Blue Cursive

wednesday morning

construction on my front lawn

a small slip of paper in my coat pocket,

blue cursive torn down the middle.

sword ferns drip with last night's rain

on the drive to school.

I put on lipstick in the rearview mirror.

there are dark hairs growing above my lip.

my mouth scrunches, gravel growls.

umbrellas open into black flowers.

something unseen rattles

deep within the dashboard.

music without face or feature

slinks past the chainlink, into static.

bright orange cones smudged with tar

your laugh caught between my teeth.

I squeeze the steering wheel in both hands

and crane my neck to look at the sky.

the sun may surface later; I hope.

blue cursive runs in rivers

down my sleeve.