Out of the Gray
I wore a gray shirt, gray short-pants, and gray socks.
The gray school with its gray toilet blocks and gray nuns
made my mother buy that gray uniform, which was
understandable, because folks like us were supposed
to only buy gray clothes anyway, for we all lived in
gray towns for fear of going color-blind.
It was well known that the Queen, the B.B.C. and all our
betters felt that too much color in our lives might lead us
to seek impossible rainbows, and so we were taught to
know our place on the color chart of life.
At ten, mum bought me a pair of long blue jeans. I felt like I
could ride a horse, or rock and roll as good as Elvis (he was
an American who lived far away in a world of razzle-dazzle
grace).
The girl next door, without prior warning, took off her long
gray dress and put on a short red skirt dotted with colorful
butterflies. Neither of us being gray that day, we gravitated
together dangerously. Dad warned us not to be too flashy,
but we went to the park anyway.
We walked there in a hand-held gentleness, and
knew then that we were in an English poem, a poem
a place that had never been gray but had been withheld
from us by those who kept all the colors of poetry away
from the likes of us.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment