01.31.03 [The Color Orange]
Among some great Celine-insulting yucks,
A TeeVee writer dares express a yen
To see the Super Bowl prize-winning Bucs
Not in their red and gray*, but once again
In white and orange, and I say Amen!
And some would cringe to see those shades on men
Of sport (unless of course you live across
The border, just a branded organ's toss
Away, from Kaintuck, down among the Vols),
The charter Tampa threads escaped the dross
Of standard colors pouring from the locker stalls.
(*Speak not of "pewter" here, unless you're prone
To also cite "ecru" or call beige "bone.")
At risk of more assault on fashion sense,
I also favor bringing back the stripes
Of Astros, whence so many draw offense.
I hear your frightened minds en masse cry, "Yipes!"
So let me cast perspective on your gripes.
My favorite color's orange, most preferred
Red-tinged, up to the hue of rust on pipes,
But needs as must to pumpkin I've deferred.
Why is it by these pigments I'm so stirred?
Perhaps, as winter drives me to despair,
The blaze of yellow-red springs like a bird.
So I salute this color, with great care.
A word so rhymeless it's notorious
Makes oding orange très laborious.
01.17.03 [What Passes for Inspiration]
Of late these lines have been in short supply;
Apologies. My muse took PTO.
But sans him, let us note what passes by
My train, and people that surround me. Oh,
There stand the walkers (which C-3PO
And pals held off) upon the Oakland docks.
To these proliferating cranes we owe
Our thanks, recalling, back before the shocks
Of CGI and vast domestic box
Snuffed out the brilliance that Sir Lucas showed,
How Star Wars films would make us say "That rocks!"
Instead, the new ones make our guts implode
With their ill stench. But, sorry, I digress
From the lame premise for this metered mess.
So let's back up (in time, not train) a bit,
To he who waited next to me to board,
Whose T-shirt over charcoal long sleeves fit
So snug his lightly muscled grace, adored
By me discreetly (what, you thought I whored?).
His sweet face, beard on only chin, with hair
Like Friends' of old, gave rhythm to what poured
Into his ears from 'phones. I had to stare,
So worry-free and confident his air.
Aboard the crowded car I stood to bide
Time till the downtown stops left free a chair.
An Asian youngster whiled away her ride
With constant, focused scratching on her Palm.
(Hmm, will Graffiti's death disrupt her calm?)
Two rows away there sits a frown-faced man
With aim of recollecting Jimmy Dean
(The rebel, not the sausage king). His plan
Is wrecked — does not he know? — by how much sheen
On his not-really-leather jacket's seen.
We charge on, through the sub-bay tunnel roam,
Then surface past the standard suburb scene —
The long-closed Ward's, the open Depot Home.
A younger woman reads a Crichton tome
(Not John, alas, but Michael) and sees not
The block-long yard where you can buy your gnome
Or other "art" to ornament your lot.
She leaves four stops before I follow suit.
And so ends this pedestrian commute.
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