by Glen Martin Fitch
I bought a suit
then gave that suit away.
"It goes with everything!"
so said the clerk.
Not so.
My brown belt
made the pants looked gray,
but then the black belt
somehow didn't work.
I swear by day
I'd call the color stone,
but underneath a lamp
it could be sand.
In photographs
it had a purple tone.
It seemed by plan perverse,
but just looked bland.
Please tell me
why you contradict your boss;
claim yourself vegan
at a bar-bee-que;
at "Daddy's temple"
wear your "Mommy's cross?"
You must know
it's a pain to be near you.
Your answer to each offer's
always "Nope."
Go die.
I bet your cosmic aura's taupe.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011