The tightening of latex across chests,
The straining to pull on jeans
So tight they begged to be
Zippered at the bottom.
For feet they were rather red,
Subjective color that it is.
Red, not alizarin in the raping amphora.
Just call it red.

There were pages of guests to greet
And all too pleasant to steal from.
The ampersands were grainy and
Maple leaves covered our disbelief.
What a tired color they expressed.
This defeatist gingham, these tartans,
These things that were guessed about.
Rumor mills and granaries.

Thunder only sounds like
A boy taking out trash on Tuesday night,
The way the bottom scours the slate.
Museum feet come as the grinding
Of light and sound comes to a halt.
And all of these people
Underneath the ruddy glow of the marquee,
They ask their eyes not to ring.