Droll thunder as a belly’s grumble;

As grey and distant as drifting friends

I admit that I am a touch sad, but just a touch,

Sad in the ways of partial fingerprints

lingering at the scene of a crime I did not commit

Your flustered hands anxious to pin them

anywhere but the place they belong

A withered boutonniere you rush to affix,

Pin back opened as wide as my mouth, ready to prick; 

The dozens of times I rose to the occasion

now perished bouquets I press into a book

Poetic potpourri, Aged beauty I save without reason

I stand by the upfront words that left you as gray as this day

cast into the role of your colorless oblivion;

Wishing you could find yourself with

the same ease in which you find excuses

and reasons to linger within these days stained xerox

The reasons that you commingle the colors of a zebra

The yin and the yang, stirred into the color of soot

holding onto the the heartbreaks and dejections

in the way the sky holds onto the endless grey;

In constant search of reasons to rain.