What do we fill a lack,
that for a time, was all that called us home
with? A lack of hope that tomorrow will be waiting with more green
than gray, filled only with colors from a paint can, and a Chia pet.
A gray stone that grows green hair and sings Chi Chi Chi Chia Obama,
or something tacky like that.
Tacky glue covers the walls, holding up pictures of you and I, smiling
like a duck at a pond in the summer, filtered in green. Not the Fanny-May mint, but
the forest-cover-up-every-other-color-in-the-picture- green: trying to fade left from black
and white.
No in between gray zone where everyone tiptoes like Imagine Dragons or Neon Trees. Everybody talks, but it starts with a whisper- a ring around the question at hand. A hand holds up the shh finger whenever asked.
What’s the point then? To ask a question? Posterity or sentimentality,
I guess. Postasentimentality Sir William Shakespeare.
The only thing keeping me home.
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