The week in colour
Saturday is purple, paler than rain
pink pricks of light dusting the morning
my daughter sees circles enclosing,
marching squares, sunset red, soldiers
matching up to the afternoon’s tasks
her Mondays are orange, while mine
green as Granny Smiths slide into
Tuesdays whose pink melts
like ice-lollies & drips into Wednesday’s yellow,
Gilman-Perkins wallpaper, old-paint,
sometimes jersey-butter, rich and buttercup
in good loam, brown as Thursday. Friday
the night, dark and deep and Sunday is stars
sharpened-white, viola-green, shining like
Sunday afternoons picking bilberries.
Not so much blue, more perse, staining
our mouths like Saturday night lipsticks.
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Seattle Nightlife Report: Pony
Mid-winter Friday night. Early but already so dark. The days are getting longer but 6 PM is still pitch black. “Firepit!” You declare things after just a few seconds of solemn thought – not a request or suggestion, not a demand. Last week you walked around saying, “Hot tub?” to anyone who would listen. Or one afternoon you pointed at two men holding hands as they crossed 12th Avenue, looked me in the eyes and said, “Boyfriends.”
By Joe Nasta | Seattle foodie poet7 days ago in Wander
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