Real yellow

You give it your

best pot, but black

kettle intervenes and 

snookers your dreams.

And then truth does

to, and disappointment 

informs you the

appointment with 

summer yellow was 

no yellow

at all.

And so you realise 

in the absence 

of that good faith 

you had gently

looked for 

you must now

quite look another

elsewhere: and so

elsewhere becomes

the real yellow – 

withdrawn and weary 

tired – from the battling

of grey you naysayed 

for so long.

And so my challenge now

is just like that  

which powdered milks 

of corporate newborn present

every woman and child:

reconstitute me if 

you can and if,

wanly,

reconstitution is your game;

and imagine,

if you will, 

that reality is mine.

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