Red moons hang precariously in the sky, envying
Orange trees, basking in their light, though their fruits are
Yellow and unripe, not yet sweet, despite that they’re due to be harvested next day by
Green workers, new to the trade—a homicide among the branches will leave their employer
Blue, throwing gin down his throat, searing the sensitive skin there, ignoring blood-shot
Indigo eyes as he dreams of free labor and no unions, finally knocking himself out, killing
Violet buds with spilled liquor, drip drip dripping out his open window, catching sunlight in the first fatal rainbow.