Yellow Will Never be the Same Without You

Only may humidity hurries in the door,
Freon or something cold, drifts between my arm and body,
waiting in line, visiting one who has already left.
Tears dampen, absorbed by s friend’s green-beige blouse
holding for dear life because she lost one.
Whispers, a moan. . . a smile walked past: her sister.
"Grand," I say. "The way its suppose to be."
A fountain of flowers gushes forth from the parlor front:
vibrant color, "Amarillo!" she had giggled across the room in my second block Spanish.
the faded paisley wallpaper envies her her yellow–
the golden, canary yellow of her favorite shirt.
She would have loved to looked up the sun,
but friends and family haven’t withdrawn, yet
outside, on the carpeted porch we feel the sun.
Heat pulses glaring on our faces talking of anything but the sad things inside.
Guys wipe sweat from their face with long dress shirt sleeves,
(or that’s what they want us to think).
T-shirts and ties mingle quietly: a melange of people waiting, whispering, watching
others and the cars that slow down on the Main St.
It is no longer silent. Students are edgy as oblivious drivers honk their horns.
I weigh taking a picture from the road to remember the turn out.
"A memory on paper in color lasts longer than on the heart, right?
"Is it appropriate?" I question.
I am confused, but the pen marks on
and so does Jennifer.
An orchestra of sniffles accompanies your passing,
the moans rise and fall in improvised movements.
A little boy in Sunday dress wonders what is going on and looks around innocently with big eyes.
I stand waiting, not realizes they don’t want this over, because that means it’s over
and she’s gone for now.