And yes, you are
Tent of the world I pin down with
poems till wind lifts the first flap
and the pins pop and scatter,
the wind now all in all
Some years brown stands up, elbowing aside
the other colors, those
splashy failures of the papers still falling,
even here, even in this den of words.
Brown. Not yellow, not red, not gold. No,
don’t tell me you see them in me.
This time it’s brown:
Humble suitable reasonable plain old dependable
Not chestnut, not rust, not burnt sienna.