Primary Colors and Secondary Thoughts

The mail was just a flyer for a pool I'll never own,

a glossy blue rectangular lie left on the mat.

I walked back to the kitchen, feeling thin and prone

to some new, quiet catastrophe—I don't know, maybe that

cobalt bowl in the sink is vibrating. It’s too loud,

that blue. It’s screaming at the beige of the wall.

I’ve been staring at it so long I’ve gathered a cloud

of heavy, unblinking static. I’m waiting for it to fall

or for me to move. There’s a chip on the rim, a white

sharpness like a bone showing through a deep bruise.

I should wash it. I should do something right,

but I’m just standing here, waiting for the light to lose.