Today I'll wear blue to honor my father:
jeans, a perfectly medium blue shirt,
blue socks—and unlike him, I'll even
thread a blue belt around my waist
and my sneakers shall be blue. He
would not approve or understand
belts, shoes which weren't leather.
Such a cheery man! Why fixate on
blue, the color of sadness, brooding,
moping, the heart's coldness? Yet,
he painted his room blue too. When I
wanted to know him better, I would
open his closet, walk my fingers through
his clothes: blue, blue, blue, blue.
I remember when quite small his
'modern' patterned shirt, pink bars
set on black. Where did that man go?
Back then did he hide his blue heart?
98/100
100 poems in 100 days
