Caution Tape

The school bus idles at the crosswalk,

a massive, blocky warning in the sun.

I stare at the bumper until my eyes ache,

feeling that bright, screaming shade of yellow

climb into my throat like a secret.

It’s the color of things that want you to stop,

or the pollen-heavy center of a lily

that ruined my best white shirt last May.

That stain never came out in the wash,

a permanent smear of a funeral afternoon.

There is no middle ground for a color like this.

It’s either the light in a kitchen window

when you think someone might be home,

or the tape they wrap around the trees

just before the chainsaws start to bite.