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

brown.

Not chestnut, not rust, not burnt sienna.

Brown.