On Jealous Skies and Wedlock

Neither of us had watched the sun set
over a prison yard before, at least
not to my knowledge. That rare
first for both of us was enjoyed
from the safety of my truck
as we drove by in the crisp evening air.

"I love when the puddles turn to mirrors
before dark," she said. "The ground is
black, but the pools of water reflect
the colors and light from the sky."

She said it from a trance without peeling
her face from the window or uncraning her neck.
Her genuine appreciation of the sight
made her words that much more convincing
as did the fact that she didn't take the image
too far with some sappy simile about shiny
coins dropped from heaven or something similar.
I held the wheel straight and looked over
at the scene to make my own observation.

"Or where the warm colors meet the cool ones.
The red turns to orange turns to yellow turns
to green turns to blue turns to purple."

Like most things, it sounded better in my head
before I went and said it. Hers was more creative
more poetic, more expressive, more everything
that I envied and would never quite tap into--
a gift she had and didn't use, but one
that I would die for if it made my tries less trite.

"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly, still staring
at the skyline. "Something like that."