Thursday, October 5, 2017

The Last Blue Flower (written at lunch)

On my left big toe there is one last speck of blue.
Hanging on after several months.
This is where the flower was painted and faded
through hundreds of miles jogging,
hours of zumba and boxing,
days of saunas and steam rooms.
This flower wiggled in downward dog
dug into wet earth
crushed in East Village throngs,
dragged from LA to NYC
to LA to NYC to Seattle to Miami to NYC
to Miami and back to LA
It has endured the ice pools at Century Spa,
 the scorching August beaches of Sunny Isles.
Sneakers, loafers, flip flops, argyle, black formal.

After a show and dinner,
cruising past the Times Square neon
in an unassuming Buick
w/ customized features.
Sharp and glistening interior of a crafstman
who keeps his best secrets for the inside,
he lectured me about the added features.
He said the best thing about self-customizing
is that subtle nod of validation.
It is the details that seem like they came from the dealer
but are the personal marks of class.
The leather lining swapped out,
wood paneling trimmed.
The curvature of speakers
adds that extra value
of a prideful secret.

The last trace of blue on my toe
is my customizing feature.
A faded ornament, a crumbling ruin
that seems like it came
from the dealer's lot,
but is remnants of painted flowers,
a Mona Lisa smile,
a secret shared between me and you.

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