The morning this morning´s a looker—
blue and creamy with orange wheels.
People on the bus, however,
seem insistently unimpressed.
Not quite tired, just as if they´d rather
be riding in the other direction—
towards their piano, or the mountains,
or the person they always meant to confess
some idiot-hearted love to.
Instead they were off to be
bank tellers, secretaries,
the lifters of heavy boxes,
the teachers of tired books.
A gray crowd we sometimes are.
(Who chose such a color?)
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