Chromologist

Ten pm and the woman responsible for the new colour chart
has a deadline, worked late. Walks alone down the hill to her car.
Ahead of her are white lights and noise. She wishes for a helicopter,
some kind of escape, but they are tarring the road. A bulldozer moves tar
like a monster with licorice and men ride rollers like tourists on segues,
Night White   Pothole     Exhaust Grey

The smell takes her back
to the new blue-green bicycle on her twelfth birthday.
How they’d tarred the roads in her neighbourhood the day before,
but she couldn’t wait. Pedalled downhill too fast, landed breathless
on Clarks’ lawn, that family with one mother and two daughters,
no father. She couldn’t imagine something not perfect,
now with a tar-speckled frame and slightly bent fender.
Smudged   Grass Stain Green      Bruised Pride

At home the woman will tell him about her busy day
and her twelfth birthday and he will listen.
The world isn’t black and white. They’ve discussed
its slippery greyness. He’s had his share of dirty creams.
Now looks for substance, sees more than her veneer,
wants her to lean on him when she needs to.
Ballast           Pipe Dream         Borrowed Light

Candyce Lange

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Candyce Lange  would like to hear them.