A hot dog
with just a little bit of mustard
color sprayed the sky in gusts
and flailing fire
“do you have any extra napkins for the little one?”
mothers asked of the ice cream man
smear the skin
on cheeks alive with gratitude
and the sprays of color
spatter on me like wet mounds of paint
when suddenly I realize
everything real is an illusion
and every illusion is real.
Everything real is Is the stuff of life and life passes so quickly— We can’t go back.