The New Grey

It's black, it says here, but not jet, not shiny,

more the charcoal black old family snapshots burn,

the dark of the cathedral vault aswarm with pigeons

muted to an expensive almost-blue-black.

See a woman in black? See me touching her shoulder?

We weren't friends, but . . . But what? Hear my words

blow out like lamps in series down a mine shaft?

The colour of the coal dust rising up to gag me

is this new shade, exactly. Can we discuss this?

I need to get fluent in grey if I want to survive.

I need a job to earn enough to buy that shirt

in the same unsayable shade that hid in the wardrobe

in a room I woke in as a child.