The Life that could not have been:
I saw a woman once.
She had a peacock feather painted on her collar bone.
It protruded toward me in vibrant colors.
I wondered what paint-can held its hues of periwinkle.
I was sitting at a picnic eating my favorite meal.
The sweet corn almost melted on my tongue.
I watched the caterer strain with a can opener.
He was making a new bowl of peaches.
The ants had feasted on the first.
My nephew played horse shoe, with a mysterious man.
He looked like Kareem Abdul Jabber.
I was attracted to his mystery.
I was not looked at him in lust but more of wonder.
I thought to myself, what is his favorite color?
Does he pray to the prophet Mohammad?
If I asked him to join me on an African safari would he?
I sensed that he was adventurous, and would venture to a place unknown.
Like Jupiter with its bellowing rings.
I looked out toward the lake.
A cool rush came over me.
Stumbling towards it, I realized I had one too many pina-coladas.
And though it was breezy, I pictured myself in a swanky setting.
Images of Southern California in 1975. Shag carpet and a train wreck of a house party.
The mysterious man feeding me grapes. My calico cat warmed my feet.
Ridiculous lavish dinosaur painting on our wall.
How extravagant I thought.
I was pampered in that moment.
Like the women with the peacock collar bone.
And her life that could not have been mine.
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