Warming the Center

The climax of this day is such a subtle yellow.
I sit on marbled sidewalk, surrounded by dusty pools of pale-canary sepals.
This has all come so gradually, so dripping from closed lips, from tense tongue, from echoing mouth, down, flavorfully, warm, slow, dripping down my throat.
The day began. It was closed, resting. And upon arising, the day became glum, disappointed and bare in the fragrant wind. The center of my stubborn frying pan refused to heat.
Slowly I spoke, smiled. Later I shared.
Now I breathe deep, am caught amidst a veil of dog droppings, and release the canine-clotted yet breezy evening air with Laughter.
Dinnertime. Showertime.