It’s as if we only see orange
orange hairs, fires, tigers,
orange tetherballs flying at our heads.
It’s as if we only know the rules of the playground.
The recess bell ringing,
lining up girls and boys separate,
avoiding the cooties,
throwing dodge balls at people,
who could only catch chicken pox,
creating the perfect future
inside of our orange playhouse,
and you are still sleeping in trees.
I can imagine you and I.
We wouldn’t have been friends.
You wouldn’t have liked my vertebrate
poking out of my skin
even as you don’t now.
We might have played house
but we could have never been
serious about playing house.
You’d have been too busy laughing
at the sun on my head, and I’d have
been staring at your arms,
plotting ways to fatten them up.
We would have attacked the obvious
when we weren’t creating it.
It would take years to teach us subtleties
are always more dangerous than orange.