The smudged sky is a slick acrylic handswipe
Its color not quite purple, not quite gray, not quite blue
It’s the lone dazed March in clothes that are not quite warm enough.
I almost shiver.
By now, the path begins to light up from glistening lampposts,
Leaning in. Do you have a secret for me?
The defiant sky resists uniformity, resists definition.
Let me be middling, it says, darkening.
Let me have time before I must be purple or gray or blue.
I try not to treat its pleas with empathy.
Instead, I turn my thoughts towards growing hunger.
Toward the food growing cold in the plastic green to-go box
with a lid that doesn’t quite shut.
I carry it back down the path to my room. By then it will be dinner time.
By then it will be night.
About the Author
Laurel Marchaven is a sophomore Communications Major at Eastern University. She loves poetry, strangely-shaped teapots, and hoarding notebooks like a dragon.