Crumbling Hudson

Red. She wears it like a zebra wears black. She penetrates the sky, glancing both ways before crossing them. She knows they lead her astray, but she continues purposefully. Each undulation stretches her skin, wrinkles her vermillion. Seduction. It's a game she plays with them. The young and men and trying to become her, they sing or mimic the anthem. Beckoning, she nearly divulges her secret. Skin deep, she allows them a perception of crimson. A shade of pink. A flavor of Lutetian rebellion.

White. Blinded by age to her rules, she helps them undress her purity. She grips the torch and lights the void with her mouth. It burns slowly for them. The boys who stare with cool envy into her eyes. They long to invite her to dance, to july her black book with spring and fall. A new tributary of melting ice descends from her nightgown. 350 miles, it slithers up the Adirondack.

Blue. She nearly reveals her royalty. Her loyalty. To it. The motive. The men. Mostly grown now. Racing up and down, and up. She smiles as they jerk and twist. All because their fathers, their bent photos of little George. A cold, clean, concrete cot. For her, they step boldly into boots and hang ancient righteousness to their chest. Clang! Clang! They must, Corpus Christi. Clang! Clang! If she is to endure. Clang! Clang! Her image elevated over the blue, her dreams, must never crumble into the Hudson.