Loving you is just as full of color
as stepping off the train from someplace north
into the streets of midtown Manhattan and goodness
all the business women in their golden spires
of hair and heel and midday men with navy pocket
squares, even the children stop to stare at my patterned
country dress, my weak-tied ponytail. My duffel builds
a crease against my elbow’s hook—somewhere
in there, laid along the clothing and the slippers,
a jar of honey for a friend tilts and leaks, and the hive
at home goes on buzzing, run by a queen and the laws
of servitude, oh even the unemployed are dressed
in red and ready in New York, and I am standing
waiting for my ride, eyed by a policeman on the corner
like a villain sent from someplace blessed with vaster
spaces, and the taxis throw themselves with vigor
at the color green, and the city sky is purpling to black
with neon signs winking sales in capitals and every redhead
in the city is out here walking, no wait, shoving, past.
panache, perhaps 
