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Postmodern Village
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I Suppose It's the Colors
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

the way amusement round him
almost childlike, his hair--
it seems so pathetic to say tangled
or matted or thick like a horse's mane
black and accurate; we'll just say
his hair made you itch
for a good heavy comb
(pink and plastic and solid)
to tear it free

he uses the brown/grey
of imposed fear like
wine and uppers
burning white
behind your retinas
in that two seconds
of utterly, thoroughly
uncomfortable silence
while you wait for him
to turn into the blue
of seduction or face
the shattering silver
glint in his eye
that's merely meant
to dismiss

And now, Kevin, now
this poem is all
about you

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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