Mailbox Blue (Ars Poetica)
I don’t know either, Jean—
the color of the sweater
the man next to us is wearing:
red, I think, light or dark or regular
red, not pink, I do know,
but can never match object
to crimson to cerise to scarlet—red, just
red, plain red, if you ask me. Sometimes I cheat:
Mead-envelope-box red
or Irene-McKinney’s-book-cover red
or leaves-on-the-sidewalk-the-morning-he-died
and hope somebody knows
what I mean.
—Aaron Smith
