Remembering My Color

Maroon sits darker in my head
than red, that mere beginning of blood

but not the darker shade it wears
when spilled or smeared

off sharp blades
or dried

onto smooth clean surfaces
reflecting operating lights.

Maroon seems just the right
mix of lead and air to paint

curves inside a hollowed cavern
left with only half its load.

Maroon is browned crimson
changed by exposure –

outside air never intended
to touch the soft recesses

of factory flesh where
so much work and chaos

tremble beneath maroon wounds.