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.