The wall is pinkish in the dusk,
The quiet whoosh of cars nearby
Create a backdrop for the mist
And soft grayness of the sky.
The wall is bordered by the white
Or was white woodwork at one time
Around the door and windows too
To match the ceiling’s dusty hue.
The grainy evening closes in,
Every tone is one of gray,
As if the night was here to say,
That color is frivolity.
Trees once green,
Now greenish gray,
Streams once blue,
Now steel or black,
Color left them
Drained as dead men
On a slab.
Poetry by Don Segal 