So, this is the kind called blood
She liked the name, made them seem alive.
Florida's signature fruit marking amber- lit days,
A carousel of county fairs, pink flamingo glasses
and alligator clocks.
Feet swinging off the back porch, eyes focused on burgeoning trees,
the grove seemed endless when a thought breezed in,
who might be buried in this one?
The ochre skin peeled easily, revealing crimson flesh
Fade the canned laughter, scripted chatter
This one spoke of clandestine nights and plum wine.
Florida raw, stained and sweet
She's nothing like her bygone trinkets
She's everything like her bygone trinkets
Does the Silver Meteor still stream through Tampa's Union Station?
Bedlam and breakfast of the southern states
Like Saffron imparting flavor to its dish
while leaving that telltale
Orange.
Vote for your favorite poem and story through March 3 at cltampa.com/writingcontest.
