THE MORNING REDS

On the boardwalk

the trees are visor

heavy. The station

wet with tactile tiles,

turnstiles that don’t

turn, just yellow

wings with metal

layers that move

inside themselves.

Everyone on the

station platform

is wearing an

orange backpack.

There are water

bottles in side

pockets. Glass

slipped into mesh.

If I could go back

in time – to ’84 or

’96 – I’d write a

personal ad in the

paper. Use a computer

with a black screen.

Move my tiny green

cursor in circles.

Instead I sit at a

white desk in a

grey room.

I watch the trees

across the lawn

tremble at each

tip like hands.

I find an old umbrella

in the office kitchen.

It’s salted blue.

It catches rain.

All the wiring you

can’t see.

The brightness.

Full colour.