Technicolor

*Note: Published in The Portland Dirt Issue 04, 2025.

The grass’s no longer technicolor

I’d say it’s rather absinthe green

The whole thing lacks some weed or flower

The sky’s a worn out pair of jeans

The sun has lost its solar power

Now it’s just a rusty yellow contour at the seams

That I spend every party, dinner, outing

Telling friends is not what they might think it is

My body’s sore, and sometimes it does seem

As if my bones, at elbows, knees, and wrists, are cutting through my skin

But then, you know, i walk it off

I find a song to love me back

I browse for stuff I think I’d not abhor

In case it showed up in my dreams

I may stop by a grocery store

To see the lady at the checkout desk

And if I’m lucky, maybe I will dream of her

But then I’m waking up to this