Gray Day
poem
Daniel Phoenix
I grab my backpack packed full of packing peanuts, fix my supposedly orange hair and slip through the door into the afternoon.
The day is a dreary gray with a blurry yellow spray throughout.
I wonder what world I would discover if my wicked color woe would wane. I scratch my face and snag my sardonic surface jewel of ceaseless sorrow. The satire of the silly piercing makes the irony of life all the more bitter. Sigh.
"Ah, wife! There you are. Bleeding? I see no blood. A blackened spot of a bad breakfast food is all that is."
Silly wife. "You can see red? Oh right. Your color woes resemble mine, save for red. Realize that blood really isn't a bothersome issue."
I reach into my backpack of packing peanuts and pull out a modest morsel. The wound, where is the wound? Ah. There we are. And there is where the packing peanut goes.
No more blood. No more wound.
The red? Oh, it'll fix on its own.
Gray Day COPYRIGHT 2006 Daniel Phoenix.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
02/17/06
