Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Yellow

Somewhere in all this yellow
there is a writer.
Somewhere in the walls
and wood and tiffany lamp
there is the heart of a pen.
I’ve seen it
lost
in the bamboo blinds.
I’ve seen glimpses of it
behind the white sliding closet doors
and under the chocolate futon.
It is in the sheet music on the music stand,
the page turned to the Beatles’ “Good Morning”.
I’ve seen it
in desk drawers
and in dark corners
underneath the calculator
and the calendar.
I’ve seen it under paper napkins at restaurants
and on park benches and subway stops.
It is there
always beating
always waiting for me.
It is there
in the car with the windows rolled down
and at the grocery store contemplating cabbage over carrots.
It is in New Orleans
in the French Quarter
silently taking notes of the Cajun and Creole
and on the powdered sugar dusted on beignets.
It is in the air
dank
and musty
and on the wings of the cicada
soon to invade.
It is in the vase of sunflowers by my desk
and in the Ninth Ward,
empty and deserted.
It is in the gallop of Eight Belles
and in the silence of her fall.