Every step I take,
I am losing color
and losing ground.
Ladies and gentlemen:
Witness the rectangle
that is actually round.
I’m a charcoal sketch
of pop art kitsch.
He bleached the creativity (for it was not preferred)
He blanched my opinion; (drowned, submerged)
I could say: “The sky is blue, by default.”
He would say: “Actually it’s not, and it’s probably your fault.”
But first he would give me that look. I live to look out for the look.
The look says: “You don’t know
what the fuck you’re talking aoubt.”
The look says: “You are a joke.”
The look says: “Shut the fuck up.”
So most of the time, I bite my tongue
and ignore the arrogance.
In seconds, it begins and it’s done. That fucking look.
Well, I’m taking back my ground.
I’m taking back the color, too.
From now on, he is the loss
that will trail in star-shaped bursts
from underneath my moving-on shoes.