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
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