This is a very strange poem written at an exceedingly early hour to the prompt: Orange Bone (If you read this on the Reader, you won’t see all facets of the poem. You must go to my site to do so.)
Mexico has tickled my orange bone–
every sedate instinct concerning décor
flown out the window like a freed hummingbird.
A bright gold house with fuchsia trim.
Orange living room with blue and green and red arches.
Denim blue entryway and chartreuse hall.
A turquoise beam in the pumpkin kitchen.
If you have a bone to pick with me over my choice of colors,
it will tickle my funny bone tell you
that I am bone tired
of beige and cream and…
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