Lynne Potts

These Orange Days

Smashed orange traffic

cone is just one piece

of the universe—

park woman in a gray suit

sweeping plastic dinosaurs


In circles of frogs

sick in swimming pools

with pink bottoms

we think of neon algae

growing eerie

on river edges

You spend your life

counting signposts

but can’t avoid listening

as they sharpen

their yellow teeth

on galvanized buckets

Persimmons taste

an unexpected orange

like comets on the horizon

with a distorted moon

bitten bitterly

off orbit

When you listen hard

tinfoil squabbles

bubble the surface

of a glass tank decorated

with plastic dinosaurs

and mossed castles

Formulas change

margins narrow

major rivers

tantamount to signposts

on galvanized fences

turn rusted orange