Tinged

I hate to argue with you,

but I must say the sky is not blue.

It is studded by blemishes---

clouds smeared by the oily effervescence

of sunrises, sunsets,

bisected by rainbows,

vivisected by the worm-trails of airplanes.

Half the time

it is blackish,

covered with shining whiteheads

popping and reforming

like the face of a teenage chocoholic.

No, the sky is not blue

nor black

nor grey when rain threatens

(don’t let me say shades of grey, for it is far too tame for that).

If marketing the sky, I’d call it a feature,

but I’m afraid no one would buy

an unnamable product,

so it would sit on the shelf

gathering dust

until the next new thing breezed in

and someone dumped it in the dustbin

or sold it to the discount store

down the street

and an old lady bought it for 99 cents

even though she didn’t know quite what to do with it,

a slightly shabby,

not quite new

puzzle of a thing.

Her cat would sleep on it

(cats, perhaps--or maybe a small Pomeranian)

and it would get covered in fur,

rolled up in a corner

and forgotten.