The Colour of Old Sheets
Which colour is mine? The colour of the street that you walk upon? Yes I’ve seen your shoes together at the foot of a bed and singularly treading the grey cement of a gutter at night expecting something that anger has delayed What colour? The colour of your collar as it covers your neck the one that has lain on soft pillow on chest with wiry hair now hidden from view by the collar like the bricks of a building hidden by plaster to hide the support and honesty What colour? What shade? Once found would I have sense of ownership? would i claim it and paint my banner with its symbolism? would i say the word until the word was the colour? or would i give it away to a lover one night drunk on lust and wine covered in summers sweat and the stench of a bastard and be left pale with dark crescents beneath my eyes.