Are you destined
to a life of burgundy doors?
All entrances and departures
marked with a cerise stain
the beet blood burgundy
The constant that runs
through your continual comings and goings
Have you aged so much
in these four years long gone
that the shade of your window seat
is pulled down against the extended brick of sunset
a journey not seen
against the scarlet door of your closed eyes
Or do you still manage to marvel
at the wonder of flight
Of the unfathomable amount of doors below
in the patchwork quilt of your country
spread like a virus across this land
Your mauve, mischievous fingers long to open each one
Or paint the face of each door
the same flushed crimson
as the horizon in the final words
of the sunset’s last act