she liked to pluck tulips
at blue noon

when you could almost see
into the neighbours kitchen–
the brazen illumination of profiles
playing against the wall in perpetual

when you could almost hear
the stoop-talk a pebble chuck
or two away

when you could almost taste
the stilted quiet
of Dreesdale Drive

when the silver in her hair
stood out against
the milky charred sky

blue noon was
the slick of tires
on dewy pavement

blue noon was
the delicious few hours
between siren-whining night
and brick wall dawn

blue noon was
the cobwebby dream
of a rosy child,
belly full of wild Omaha air

blue noon was
for ashy roof tops,
drowsy lamp lights,
burnt kettles

blue noon was
for tulips
(the pathetic, blue kind)

Illustration by Felipe Pinto.