And Something Gray Like Muddy Cement

My tea is gray.
Like muddy wet cement,
Thursday after chemistry,
Soggy jean ends and heavy packs.

The grass is seeping on the sidewalk,
Faded green and second hand,
Gray encased in green,
Ceramic with little white dots.

January storms with crisp clouds,
Winter cool but not cold,
And I wish for a moment,
Standing,
Sitting,
near a friend I never thought to have.

“I wish it were snowing,”
Chilled crisp air with little white dots,
Sloshy gray snow on the side of the road,
tires turning but car immobile,
Thursday after work.

It’s August but it’s Thursday,
So I can pretend with,
A White Polar bear on my tea mug,
Hot drink and hot air,
Crisp warm Blueberries,
And cicadas in the air.

That
It’s gray outside like my tea,
With little white dots in the air,
And rain on the ground.

My pants are in the dryer,
Because the ends were wet and,
My winter coat is out on the hook,
And not hidden in a coat closet,
That’s somewhere I’ll never look.

It’s something I can always hope,
That my life will return to these,
Little mundane moments with,
Matching details and a circular pattern.

Because they,
More than any huge event in my life,
Have defined who I really am.

So, hot one August night, I,
Close my eyes and pretend it’s,
A Thursday in January and,
I’m somewhere I don’t want to be,
With a friend I’d never thought to have,
Finding my jean ends wet,
And something gray like muddy cement.