Over salads at the outdoor cafe,
her autumn hair glowing like her cream skin,
watching a soaring bluebird make its way,
she recalled being too drunk for driving
to JFK. So she hired a limo
to pick up her boyfriend, back from LA
and a spot shoot. Deep shame flaming primo
in her heart flared to anger, then display
of curse words spewing, shocking her smiling
beau as he slid in the back seat. His face
burned to ash, eyes of tears, voice compiling
one soft phrase: What color’s the sky? Disgraced,
stunned, she blurted… Blue… He whispered, Bluer…
hell of a lot bluer…when you’re sober.
Roger Armbrust
October 19, 2008
