If I were placed inside a box of crayons

I’d fit between the yellow and the red,

a niche for wildfire in my head,

an orange scaled to brilliance of dawn –

I’d streak across the skies of Vietnam,

cast sunset on the mountains up ahead

to outline mountaintops with golden thread –

ignite their peaks before the evening gone.

I wouldn’t be sweetest tangerine;

I like my fruit with quite a little kick,

a sour, natural antihistamine

to clear the sinus, strong and doublequick –

Though some prefer a softer yellow-green,

I’d draw a steady orange for the skeptic.