Someone Else’s Tuesday

I’m smelling the carton to see if it’s sour,

standing alone in the kitchen’s quiet hour.

Then the hum starts low, a vibration in the pane,

a jagged red sound like a cut or a stain.

It passes the driveway, it rounds the sharp bend,

where the sidewalk and the garden patches end.

For a second, the fence is a hot, vivid pink,

then it’s gone before I can even blink.