Amber Dew

when you wake up in the wee hours of the morning or, perhaps, if you were to wake in the wee hours of the morning and pad with bare feet past your humidity-warped Georgian porch to collect the morning’s paper if, perhaps, they still deliver papers and the postman tosses your bundle just short into the dew-dappled, scorched brown fur of your weeded and seeded yard- you might curse. “D*mned dew,” perhaps, “Now my feet are f***ing wet and I’m gonna track it into the house and I just mopped, f***, I should’ve just slipped on some d*mn shoes-” or, perhaps, you call over your shoulder “The dew fell!” to the empty rooms of an outrageously priced rental with a warped porch and brown grass Amber drops into existence one moment nowhere and the next sprawled in the yard with tomorrow’s news in her teeth sometimes New York, or Louisiana or somewhere in NW Germany where her mother’s genes are rooted or, perhaps, squished in the backseat of an over-loved four-door between her violin and the beer breath of a bandmate teasing lyrics from film score playlists and the passing streetlights of an unfamiliar stretch of interstate you curse, perhaps, upon first glance of sunspotted ochre dew “D*mned dew,” you say, perhaps, incited by her third inked eye and the noise she projects past brown grass, warped porches, and cross-continental stages. even metal stages could benefit from a bit of Amber dew.