Gray Skies

I love the gray shroud that buries the head and demands nothing. Sunny days boss one around like a perky supervisor. You can't meet its eye because it blinds. It hands you a schedule with a million tasks on it. And I always forget to clock in.

I love the unappreciated sludge that weighs down the active and buoys up the tentative. Its lethargy compliments me. It doesn't care whether I stand or sit. It doesn't bash its yellow boots through my windows if I choose to stay indoors.

I love the nonchalant vapor that banishes the clear blue with moody gusto. For blue is too innocent a color for me to live under. It smacks of senselessness. Give me the clouds' loaded pollution, and I'll inhale its harmony.

I love the low-lying, slothful miser who is both willful and stubborn. It is like a bruised old man who refuses to die in order to dismay his vulturous offspring. He knows he'll never get a proper funeral, and so he intends to live indefinitely.