[He speaks in color]

He speaks in color.
Flashes of vivid crimson are interrupted
by beaming navy and gold glitter lines.
Talking with his hands now, he agitates
fuchsia and sky blue to a smoke swirl
before flattening it into a red-lined pancake
when he slams his left hand against the mahogany table.

Across the woodscape from him, I sit
pausing from knocking the adorned spoon against
my coffee-and-creamed mug. Outside the window sill,
clouds stir up the dust lining
the chalk-drafted sidewalks and crumbled asphalt.
A murmur of lavender escapes his lips
as I commence the steady tapping
of silver and ceramic.

I wish he would stop.
It is too bright here
to watch the suede storm roll in
to drench the yard’s hobbled dandelions.
Shattering winds and downpour are pale
compared to the ember orange and white-flecked blue
that invades these walls and reflects off
of the polished metal of picture frames.

A tear of coffee falls to my arm and I look down to smudge it off
as the first drop of water arrives at our front door.