Watercolors Wet

The artist sighs with deep regret, too late to stop, the colors wet, greens and blues and purples met, pollute and blur his raw sunset. A baby stirs, begins to fret, an athlete pauses, drenched in sweat, daily building karmic debt, turn up the volume on the set. Darkness spawns a silhouette, war-torn bloodless bayonet, too drunk to say the alphabet, life and death sing their duet. The engine roars in the Corvette, haven't hit 190 yet, the car leaps forward like a jet, dear God, I want a cigarette. ©Danielle White