A Purple Bikeshed

is like gunshots out my window
shoulders to my ears
my eyes fool me more
so dominant the arrow

From this perception swells
the constant hum in everything
a drone enclosed in every tone
infrequent blap pop boom goes
echoing in the night
like thunder claps to sparring mits
or chalk erasers slap slap dust
like seabirds scatter whistling
like locusts far away
I’m gauging miles now where a body lay

What color is the bikeshed
at night it is maroon
and in morning when the light appears
we stand foolish to the moon
and so a mind will empty and fill
gradual in such cycles
when wane and waxing back we kindle candle fire
Fearing that the stars ignite

And if their brilliance is too loud for me
I plug my ears with my knees even though papa said,
“You shouldn’t stick anything in your ear that’s bigger than an elbow.”

Sharp corners and zig zags of different shades make illusions
when the contrast moves from bold to fade
whether breath or truth it’s sound that is the life of proof

Why wonder about the bikeshed color
when it only matters that it has a roof
and so we converse our comments and opinions in predictable cycles
perceiving what we please and dismiss all else as trivial
forgetting what to do with a house full of bicycles