Yellow

I’ve never written sidewalk poetry,
but I want bouquets to arrive on my doorstep
and wonder who they're from. 

I want to meet my first love in an old bookstore
that’s being driven into the ground
by its owners. 

I want my heart to be broken,
and I want to build myself back up from it. 

I want to live in a house by a lake,
with a flower garden that is surrounded
by rickety metal fences—
because that’s just so poetic, 
isn’t it?

(and what about life isn’t poetic?)

The house will have a bright yellow door,
because yellow isn’t appreciated enough. 

I want all my journals to have tattered, water-stained
yellowing 
pages (like my papery skin),
to be filled with scrawled writing
for my grandchildren and children
to sort through 
after I’m gone.  

Sunsets remind me of death,
so I should board up all my windows
and double-lock all my doors.