Sometimes

I get a lot more paranoid than I think anyone thinks I'm capable of. The sun is technicolor-bright on the ivy. The school bus yellow crane is a finger-pistol pointed directly at me. It's still early and long low contrast shadows slant over the road. The buds on the maples outside my window are red and swollen. They are so itchy it hurts. I am writing a sonnet called Saturday at gunpoint. I would like to go back to bed.