We Never Found the Orange one

My eyes are the kind of blue,

the kind you see every day.

My hair is a certain brown -

a color you expect to see.

Sometimes it curls

but no more than anyone else’s.

My smile is bright and white

but only as much coffee and decent dental hygiene allow.

I’m fair to middling in all ways that matter.

Though if there was a reason for me to be special,

It might be my lunchbox.

A little plastic thing.

Growing up where I did (when I did)

they said, “He’s light in his loafers.”

I may be lighter than most.

I heard, “He’s got some sugar in his tank.”

Wrong! It is definitely Sweet’N-Low.

They claimed, “He’ll bat for the other team.”

As if I would end up in sports.

I did hear, “He’s such a sweet boy”

Which was a nice change of pace.

Until they’d hiss, “Sissy!” straight into my face.

Perhaps because it was because of my lunchbox.

That cheap plastic thing.

I remember her hair being black -

the kind straight from a bottle.

I recall her nails as sharply pointed and red -

not polished, but lacquered.

Her house was yellow, then blue, then pink -

offensive or delightful, people took their pick.

Her gumdrops were always rainbow -

piled high in a crystal dish.

She was the neighborhood babysitter -

she smoked Pall Malls through a cigarette stem.

A black Bakelite thing.

Pink was the color of the lunchbox,

where she kept my off-brand crayons.

Each wax cylinder carried flecks

of color from its neighbor. Specks

of paper clung to their sides.

You already know none were sharp.

I can still smell their color. That warm waxy scent.

When the act of coloring was more important than the hue.

My little lunchbox held all my colors,

those small broken things.

It wasn’t late, but the sky was already dark.

It must have been winter.

When he saw the lunchbox

I so proudly grasped,

his face gave way from love to fear.

I wouldn’t understand why

his teeth were bared,

his face protective and hateful, together.

“He’s not a SISSY.”

Not one with a pink lunchbox,

not one at all.

It was one of those moments

when after was louder than before.

A reverberating silence

still echoing sudden violence.

Colors rattling across linoleum

through shards of pink plastic.

At the age of three, when everything is taller

I found myself, suddenly, feeling even smaller

I can still feel that small. That cold lonely feeling.

When the world is sharp, and anything is more important than you.

We didn’t stay to gather

the broken bits of color.

I cannot see her face alive,

as easily as I see it dead.

Her hair piled black,

her nails painted red.

She was of a different time

when screens were silver.

But she was a woman who lived,

In full-blown chroma-techni-color.

She gave me a little pink plastic lunchbox

To hold my world of colors.

I think she knew;

I would have a world of color to share.

Now I know my eyes are blue,

like lake Michigan before a storm.

My hair is brown,

the kind that changes with the season.

It curls. Girl,

does it curl.

Yes, my teeth are white and, thankfully,

the straightest thing about me.

I’m fair to middling in the things some people think matter.

Though if there was a reason for me to be special,

It might be my lunchbox,

with all my colors to share.