Everything from Hoovers
to perambulators comes in purple.
It’s territorial. Yesterday’s plate
of royal mashed potatoes. Pubs choose it,
running juicy down their walls. They wear
it pony-pink on BBC: amethyst bling
for queens, newscasters, and reality shows.
Benedict’s favorite Sherlock shirt.
They send it when I order blue.
Grape cargo beyond my control. Kool-Aid
fermented into erotic grown-up wine.
I partake; paint a formidable room (two coats).
Fertile womb rooted in northern night.
Drunken, I go missing in purple.
Purple by Tess Kincaid poets pen | |
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| 42 views views | 179 followers |
| People & Blogs | Upload TimePublished on 27 Mar 2016 |
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