You slap me in the face
like a bucket of ice water on the fifty yard line.
I wake from my stupor
to spot seagulls swirling above my mother’s head,
corn chips drawing them closer and closer,
their shapes softly silhouetted in your sapphire sky.
A cup is gripped tightly by an admirer
in the distance.
Then, a black crow lands and
the cobalt fades to powder and salmon.
but only briefly.
A chill wind brushes against my cheek
and you’re gone.