Grey Areas
A poem
--
“Love lives in the grey areas” he said,
shaking his salt and pepper head.
Of course he’s right, and it was there;
in coffee spilled beside the bed
and trickled up the stairs.
In all the sweat
from running for the train:
it needed bleaching out — that yellow, armpit stain.
In mud walked in, trodden in haste
to get a Goodnight Kiss. (When sleep-deprived,
motives for crimes like this are often missed.)
I kept on looking for that brilliant display:
dazzling, blinding, irrefutable,
accompanied by cherubs playing trumpets
as an angel sings,
instead of noticing the edges
and the corners
where he tucked love, quietly
and oh-so-neatly, on days when
we did that ‘ships in the night’ thing.
His strokes were dark and ordered;
heavy beats reverberated in his chest.
I scumbled off and found myself unsure
where home was
when I floated down to rest.
The water muddied: while I swirled about
he detailed in the shade.
The ink was fading and our colours bled
so slowly, growing dim.
It seemed much simpler just to separate them out;
a pot for me, another pot for him.
We tidied up as best we could;
wiping tear splatters,
washing brushes,
hiding pictures painted yesterday.
But now the paper’s dry I think I can make out
- so indistinct it makes my eyes sting -
there was beauty in the grey.
