Odd Orange #1

on November 14 he put it on
because he knew how he was supposed to feel
empty eyes, slack face, arms smooth with the body, shoulders hunched.
walking into the brown living room, declaring that his car must journey
across the country, stopping in crumbling stations
reminding him that he should be crying.

her absence meant no more summers at universal studios
or trips to the beach, or bone shaped cookies on Halloween.
she would never give him the last of the sausage
or send cute birthday cards to his house.
she would never have to wake up early in the morning
to take the battery of pills that stopped her blood from devouring her skin.
bruises a distant memory once the body is consumed.

wind rips through the car, screaming past his ears
videos playing behind his eyes
yellow sunbonnets replaced by raw, red sores
and the cup of coffee that become her final meal.

somewhere
on that vast expanse of i-70
his wheels devoured a rabbit
body not so white and fluffy anymore.
his chest heaved, breath gasped, eyes filled
and he couldn’t stop laughing.