Duvet Day

It was a Dancy tangerine, a leaf, or a kid-glove orange that had fallen from the tree. I failed to notice it. I was learning to swing in a way that left me in need of my hopeless optimism while watching a dance of rage on TV. There was no change. A drunk driver outside who was wearing orange driving gloves with a zipper skin swerved sharply and struck my old, gnarled tree while infusing my ears with a sexual innuendo. He was unable to avoid his embarrassing mishap. I understood much later that the dance of Saint Vitus had caused him pain. His soul's wounds were eventually too deep for anyone to mend. I was eager for this Duvet day to be over. Poem by Marieta Maglas