Lean out of this convention
of age with your coffee, your
blue humor and your explanation.
I might even back up and laugh.
I got here, too, you know, scouring
each Kodak black and white
for a date and a reason in logical
monochrome.
I’m fine, if you ask. I can still smile
at the joke of sky blue pink. I knew
this was coming and try not to worry
that after a lifetime of every shade
of dissent, all I am left with is fuschia
and the shadow
under our chestnut tree, still relevant,
but pointing east now. As if that direction
is a clue, a planchette moved by the sun
before the sky goes salmon and shouts
no such luck, my friend.
