poem #72

I am standing on a deserted street in the purple light of late evening. The grass is damp from a recent rain, and wind blows through the buttons in my shirt. I duck into a brick building’s entranceway, stepping over a pile of leaves that have fallen and find myself in an art gallery. An abstract painting is on the wall, all purples, pinks, and greens, and I step closer to admire it, drawn by its beauty.