Wednesday the 27th
There were wildflowers, yellow and purple, growing wild in the fields. The kind of flowers you would make me pull over for. To take a picture of. Or maybe to pick a few.
Two stops back I thought I saw you in a blue rusted pickup, chewing gum like it was trying to escape your mouth. It wasn’t you, just someone with the same gold hair. Why is everything wild painted yellow?
I think the rain is washing away all memory of you.