And so when I stumble into you
in the grocery store of course
you are wearing grey. Let me
just tell you the ways: I swore
that wino on the corner of
Basillo Badillo and Constitutión
was wearing your shirt.
It had pink dots in one corner too
grey often fades to pink, which for starters
makes it a dubious prospect. But here you are
and you still have your shirt, literally
anyway, so I ask other things, doesn’t matter
what; grey doesn’t answer
grey is the ? Forget the grubby fingers
in the cookie jar; in this guise grey is
bigger than all other colours
grey cannot be stopped. Just try….
Even as air, grey is like water; the strongest element
the Taoists say,
since it takes the low road.
Grey will get you in the end, no doubt.
Grey is the space around your bar stool
a grey gorge, of the
bottomless type. Grey cataracts
your eyes and grey is the mother of all
hangovers, after the red drunk
I now understand, grey sticks around
a clogged faucet
even as the burgundy has seeped through.
I can wear grey; it
suits me, as it does him
we advertised our distastefulness
not with bright colours
but with grey; no one else
would mess with it. Grey
how we rolled through here
leaning on the trolley
but what’s worse
it smells grey, vodka, doesn’t it
that shroud of yours, that pall
(and not having smelled it for a while)
on the rocks or intravenously
of course when I stumble
into you, you are wearing grey.
turn around, turn Aposematic
words: Rose Hunter, Mexico (YB poetry journal / blog)
image: 'Clips' - Smitha Murthy, India (Life Wordsmith)