Interlude in Mustardland (a poem)

No chance to get out today…

Mustardscapes suggest
either something is very wrong
or the world has been remade in the image of Grey Poupon®
a little spicy, nothing terribly special,
overpriced for what it is.

The best sunsets are much, much warmer,
a rich, reddish-orange that would melt
if it were anything other than a color.

Amber alkaline oozes from a distant wound,
impossible to locate through the burn;
I can’t picture it, anyway—
my imagination doesn’t get much wilder
than ‘mustardscapes’,
and I don’t see a whole lot of sunsets these days.

I have to put down this momentary, vivid scene
to the euphoria of a hot shower on a chilly afternoon,
an accidental firing of neurons
in the part of the brain that regulates language
and hasn’t got to play much for a while.

I do love a good, hot shower…

(25 January 2018)