The Dollar Bill State
No colors here. Really.
Just grays and
navy blues,
some maroons
and blacks.
But mostly gray. And remember,
what I said about gray.
Clouds suffocate a wet ground
growing themselves into giants,
slithering across the sky
in, a great migration.
We hang our necks
from, the straws
in our drinks,
while hundreds
of miles, stay
cooped up under our belts.
Getting drunk, only
to lament obscenities.
Damning this and
that and each other:
Sometimes,
all at once.
Sometimes,
not at all.
But the sweat we wear
can’t, keep us warm,
as we’d hoped it would-
It hurts to be this cold.
Wish you were here.
