What was that?
A voice? Not quite clear among the muddle of sundown traffic.
Again. Hear it, in the nub of noise, ambient among the clatter of chatter?
A murmur in a tide of drone.
She whispers, “What are those colors on the sunset sky?”
Her eyeshadow matches the blue of her question.
A taxi stops for her. “Join me?” she invites.
I do. “What color are your eyes?”
“Aquamarine.”
Riding deeper toward evening, under cover of the edge of night,
the slim pinkish clouds brilliant on the light blue field of western horizon,
the driver inquires, “Where to?”
“I want to know the name of the specific hue of those clouds,” she urges.
“Just tell me where you want to go. Please.”
“Do you know where Sunset Sky Lane is?”
“Ya, somewhere out there between Apricot and Tangerine.”
