Forty shades of blue?
Well, there’s fifty ways to leave your lover,
And an infinite number of subtle gradations
On the spectrum. I’d think forty is a walk in the park
For any poet worth his salt.
Indigo certainly works, if you’re sitting
In some bar where it’s all jazz all the time,
Even though you don’t know your Miles from your Chet,
Your Coltrane from your Monk—you have, after all,
For the sake of some girl (an Art major. Art major.)
Managed to fake it this long, almost long along enough
To believe that you’re enjoying yourself.
Azure was your childhood;
Skies high and endless, days where the sun
Never seemed to set, just one ball game
In the field across the road fading imperceptibly
Into the next one, no signs trumpeting
A forthcoming sub-development leaning obscenely
Where second base rightfully belonged.
That’s two down, only thirty-eight to go, my son.
Well, I’m just getting warmed up here.
Navy is a not-quite-right blazer worn to the interview
For a job you were probably overreaching for
In the first place—it probably involved the devil’s own hours,
What with nights, weekends, and try taking vacation time anyway.
Hell, that makes you pretty much the man in the gray flannel suit.
Sapphire is…September’s birthstone? Well, it would make sense
As you first saw her…oh, it must have been the second or third week
Of first semester, junior year. Her laugh was as loud (yet every bit
As soft and comforting) as church bells,
And she was so mad and random
As to give Alice’s Queen of Hearts a run for her money.
To be fair, it could have never worked—her plans,
If you could stretch Webster enough to call them that,
Made up of faraway places and far-out schemes guaranteeing no more
Than undernourishment and underemployment.
Giving up the ghost already? Nothing else to say?
Well, I’ve always been a bit of an underachiever.