A Poem by O.G. Rose
Midway upon the journey of passion,
I found the path of “blue” split into three —
“azure,” “cobalt,” and “lapis” — and remembered my editor,
who lived during the time of false and lying ideals,
lambast me for details, for not hearing
the difference.
How hard a thing it was to say
what was this New York I described, savage and paramount,
which, in memory and contemplation,
held above itself a sky in December
under which my protagonist searched —
for color.
“Blue,” childish, would cause a nasty knee-jerk
of rejection, but “cobalt” would feel
an overdone product of Thesaurus.com.
I could not well recount how this lifestyle I entered
from the security of financial investing, but here I was,
sending me.
The New Yorker was a mountain,
and at the summit — I smiled thinking —
the paths became one, trustworthy and true,
effused with morning, that the natural foot I reached
couldn’t be like the top
I pondered.
My fear was a little quieted,
being this far, a survivor of the night
of MFAs and Pushcarts, to see
where the wheels in wheels in wheels
ceased spinning.
I turned back to the paths, my weary body
rested, and chose to challenge the “cobalt” slop —
my keyboard-familiar fingers foot-stepping —
and instantly a memory of the gorgeous barista,
born in September, reminded me “cobalt” was an option in
Home Depot.
I attempted “lapis,” and imagined readers wondering
why I needed to impress; “azure” suggested a greed
to use words best left
behind.
I stepped back and looked toward my feet —
“blue” — and dropped through the leafy debris and floor — a trap —
down, perhaps to sentence two
or into your trashcan, praying that,
in the end, I didn’t end up
frozen. But I had hope
as I fell: it just took the right look
to make a page
tear-worthy.
.
.
.
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