What Colors the Steel Sky Blue

Mr Gardener come give me my fix
cause ma can no longer make cookies.

On that red day you began, I ended.
As yellow leaves fell on my forehead
I did not have a comb in hand.

The wild grass was long and soothing,
but soon green stains would be growing.

Everything rips, everything wrinkles
no wash can take away what I have seen.

What you and I hold here for less than a minute,
can only turn to grudges.

You said you knew the course of the sun,
I said I knew it's cooler in the shade.

You're always up for digging up the garden,
somehow I end up sleeping on my back all day.

The windows cave in, the ceiling weighs down
the fan beats that familiar beat.

Your callused hands stroke my winter shoulders,
as ice cubes shift in a glass of ice tea.

Mr Gardener, I can not say yes to all this.
Put that shovel down and let the wilting die free.

TJV
May 2002