Tomorrow She'll
Wear Blue
and No One Cares
He was walking down the street, late,
on a weeknight
and he caught the sidelong glance
of someone smoking in a car.
His watch sounded the time
as the tolling of a bell
in the silence
and there are times
when the sound of his soles
on pavement -
he watches his feet
so he doesn't catch a glance
of a life he doesn't need.
Stoplight.
There's a light at the end of the tunnel.
He doesn't like to
walk alone -
the car was blue,
he thought,
and it looked old.
All colours exist as reflections,
mirrored hallways,
tunnels,
and the blue is in the blood,
he used to be -
Greenlight.
Sidewalks echo like ghosts.
There are times he watches his suede feet,
he doesn't want to catch
the corner of someone's eye
in a blue car.
He used to be a patchwork quilt,
like the holes in his jeans,
and there was a blue patch
in the center
on the left,
but frayed jeans can't go in the wash
and he was unclean
so that patch
in the center
on the left
he tore out
and now it's red
and all the patches,
he thought, should be red
and his suede feel
are echoes
of a ghost
walking under circles of light
and all colours
are reflections
and there's a light at the end of the tunnel
and maybe all colours exist
Wear Blue
and No One Cares
He was walking down the street, late,
on a weeknight
and he caught the sidelong glance
of someone smoking in a car.
His watch sounded the time
as the tolling of a bell
in the silence
and there are times
when the sound of his soles
on pavement -
he watches his feet
so he doesn't catch a glance
of a life he doesn't need.
Stoplight.
There's a light at the end of the tunnel.
He doesn't like to
walk alone -
the car was blue,
he thought,
and it looked old.
All colours exist as reflections,
mirrored hallways,
tunnels,
and the blue is in the blood,
he used to be -
Greenlight.
Sidewalks echo like ghosts.
There are times he watches his suede feet,
he doesn't want to catch
the corner of someone's eye
in a blue car.
He used to be a patchwork quilt,
like the holes in his jeans,
and there was a blue patch
in the center
on the left,
but frayed jeans can't go in the wash
and he was unclean
so that patch
in the center
on the left
he tore out
and now it's red
and all the patches,
he thought, should be red
and his suede feel
are echoes
of a ghost
walking under circles of light
and all colours
are reflections
and there's a light at the end of the tunnel
and maybe all colours exist
because everything is blue
that's not white
and the smoke
in the car,
he thought it was old,
but it was blue
and there was a girl smoking
with the light
glinting off her eyes
he stopped.
And he turned around.
He longed for the darkness
of an alley
and he longed to be out of the light.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel
and we're just looking for a blue
that's not oppressive,
one that doesn't push
by tons on cubic inches,
from above
or from below,
and there's a way out
because all that's white exists
to be not blue,
and there's a light
at the end
of the tunnel,
there's a light
and it's warm
and it's white
and the car she was
driving was blue,
but she was beautiful
with the glint of light
off of her glance
and the car was blue.
His watch sounded the time,
hollow,
and there are times
he watches his feet,
but he stops and can't watch them,
now.
Her pupils were dilated,
but just around the edges
her eyes were two rings of colour,
and their colour was bright,
and her lips left red rings of wax
on the end of her cigarette.
But her eyes were blue.
Art and poem (c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
that's not white
and the smoke
in the car,
he thought it was old,
but it was blue
and there was a girl smoking
with the light
glinting off her eyes
he stopped.
And he turned around.
He longed for the darkness
of an alley
and he longed to be out of the light.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel
and we're just looking for a blue
that's not oppressive,
one that doesn't push
by tons on cubic inches,
from above
or from below,
and there's a way out
because all that's white exists
to be not blue,
and there's a light
at the end
of the tunnel,
there's a light
and it's warm
and it's white
and the car she was
driving was blue,
but she was beautiful
with the glint of light
off of her glance
and the car was blue.
His watch sounded the time,
hollow,
and there are times
he watches his feet,
but he stops and can't watch them,
now.
Her pupils were dilated,
but just around the edges
her eyes were two rings of colour,
and their colour was bright,
and her lips left red rings of wax
on the end of her cigarette.
But her eyes were blue.
Art and poem (c) 2005 Laura Marie DePierre
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