Color

At the bus stop,

a kid in a vermillion jacket.

The color stopped me mid-reach

for my phone.

Not red. Something more alive.

Like the inside of something,

exposed. Like fruit

before it spoils.

The kid was small, didn't know

what she was wearing.

Just the warmth of it.

But I stood there

staring at the fabric

as if it would tell me something.

The other people waiting

looked gray. Their coats,

their faces, the light itself

was gray.

And then the jacket.

That color.

It made everything else

look like a photograph

that had faded.

The bus opened its doors.

The kid got on.

I'm still standing there,

trying to remember

what the world looked like

before I saw it.