If it were music, it would be Mahler’s
Ninth Symphony, the requiem;
if a Bridge hand – set three,
doubled and vulnerable.
Of weather conditions, a drizzling day,
just above freezing, with wind.
A dialogue would be eristical,
with condescending looks.
Or if a house – the roof would seep,
with black mold growing in hidden places.
Color would be gray:
unfocused, dim, and fading.
In a cityscape, the littered
lot in a blighted neighborhood.
Grassy weeds in a bed
of perennial flowers.
To a critic. clichéd,
abstract and trite;
a bank account, drawn
down but not zeroed out.
By fashion’s sense,
dated and slightly worn.
A tomato plant, with
tobacco mosaic virus.
At home nowhere
On land or sea
Up the road again
No place to be
Burma Shave
