49 Shades of Grey
I’m writing this longhand. Can you tell the difference?
It feels different. And what colour would you call that sky?
Burnt Offering Smoke. Ultra Dove. Battleship Potemkin.
I could maybe get a job making up names for Dulux.
But there’s probably an app for that. Machine sonnets.
Random phrase maker. Citrus agency. Apropos of nothing,
have you seen the Poetry Review recently? Winter 2016
issue. I-kid-thee-not. Filing Cabinet. Council Premises.
Worn Tarmac. Yellow roses in a vase in the window
of the house opposite spark like matches when the sun
strikes. The kid on the moped goes by. I want to stretch
piano wire across the street. See if we can’t get a tune
out of his skid lid. Foggy Day. Week Old Dishwater.
Dead Elephant. Did I mention I’m writing this longhand?
We began the climb at sunset and kept pace
with the light until we stopped at five thousand
feet when night dropped like a bucket into a well
and when it hit the water the stars were splashed
across the sky. She named the major constellations
while I gawked at them and reached out to touch.
Next day, hunger took us back down the mountain.
Told you I’d show you stars, she said, over coffee,
while what brains I had remaining quit my head.
Al McClimens is an unemployed layabout, a serial time-waster and all round drain on the economy. He reads a novel a week, writes a poem a day and look where it’s got him. He will work for food. Please give generously. His debut collection will be published by Pindrop Press early in 2021.