every shade of orange

i cannot remember the boy’s name.
i grasp at spider web wisps of faded memories
of his face, of his clothes,
all I can see is orange.

the only concrete images I can recall
are that of his thick rimmed glasses
as he read his poems,
his fingers as they held a clove cigarette
to his lips after class;
he smelled like soap and cloves
and laughed without using his eyes.

the rest of my memories of him
are the orchestrations flowing from his mouth:
sunset soaked streets
that criss-cross under fading suns,
raw sienna dirt under gnawed fingernails
and dead ochre and vermillion leaves skittering across
hard asphalt.

i picture jack-o-lanterns gently flickering on all hallows’ eve
sweet tangerines on kitchen cutting boards.
I imagine autumn
and every shade of orange.
But I cannot recall his face.