Gray

	Skitters on mouse feet,
		clamoring on the roof of my apartment
		on a dark, rainy afternoon.
	Appears with foggy eyes in the winter bleakness.
	Reflects the shades of light from the tombstone
		when I'm trying to remember my father's face.
	Mopes about in an unhappy manner.
	Mixes blackness with anything else.
	Colors my mood as I contemplate growing old.

	Slounges in a pair of old sneakers that once were white
		before slogging through a thousand mud puddles.
	Seems more content in northern climates.
	Likes the inner city.
	Abhors babies.
	Rises late in the day,
		wipes the sleep from his eyes,
		and spends happy hours frollicking in the night shadows.
	Assumes a grumpy appearance during daylight.
	Feels comfortable in hospitals
		where he blends into halls and walls.
	Stumbles about with blurred vision.
	Avoids all things not black or white.
	Wheedles and coaxes,
		but if you look closely,
		his smile is an act.

	Balloons up like a large animal,
		an elephant, hippo, or rhino.
	Cowers down like a goose or a rabbit.
	Plays it cute like a kitten
		but kittens sometimes tell lies.

	(In reality, gray is old, like I am,
		like the streaks in my hair,
		like the suits that I wear.
	Gray literally suits me.
	We both run a little slower
		but  we can go the distance.)

Bob McAfee - 6/22/94