Written July 4, 2017
There is no green in this poem.
I can’t find a green pencil crayon in my bag.
For some reason I want green.
A grass green or a forest green.
Even though there is no park.
There is no greenway, nor plants or trees around.
Not even city trees.
It’s a block from Main and Hastings.
I miss this neighbourhood sometimes.
There is a ritual of packing my bag.
In goes laptop, sketchbook, phone, pencils.
I set out, walk here.
The last time It meant something.
I removed myself from someone I loved.
From someplace I loved.
I think of the coffee I drank
before I start home.
I ask for the key to the washroom.
They hand me a blue feather duster.
The key attaches to the plastic handle.
I unlock the door and
the bathroom is dimly lit with blue lights.
There is only darkness with a blue glow.
I see an outline of dirty porcelain.
I think it’s too dark to see the filth if it’s here
(And I’m pretty sure it is).
The barista, he says: It’s so they don’t do drugs
I have recently bought some
new pencil crayons.
I draw pictures before I write my poems.
I can’t believe I didn’t put
a green crayon in my bag.
Even though there is no green
in this poem.
Only the blue of the feather duster,
and the blue flickering lights in the toilet
I decide not to pee in.
by Wendy Stewart