This is my third take on blue, my obsessive poet tendancies coming out.
Managed to miss yesterday somehow, between an essay and work somehow mislaid my napowrimo time, so I’ll be catching up today hopefully. Wouldn’t it be great if there was a machine you could put your poem in that would generate the best, most fitting title for it? Titles are so hard. Lets call this poem Waitress Blues for now:
these days maroon me in the week,
they smell like an old jumper
a round-neck, dull blue
often worn, shoved to the navy-dusk
of the wardrobe’s bottom shelf.
Pull apart the wool of it, unwrap the seams
Lay out your week in all its costume splendour
Pick a strand, you can redeem those mindless hours
A bruise shadows my waist
A burn my left index finger
A torn nail on my right ring finger
My skin is a coat with an undone hem,
An unstitched sleeve, a missing button
I will mend and fade,
the angry specks that threaten
Me with deep blue potential,
the bruise to blossom
An angry plum, time will pluck it.