The type of color to
bring lovers together and separate them.
This was her body language
when her dwelling was swelling
and worn from verbal onslaught.

It was her begging
to take the plea of guilt,
to take the pink pass.

This eye candy became
her reminder of
having homesickness.

Most would
slip a simper, sticking
their forks in food
they’re pretending to eat.

There’s no
pale, white tablecloth
to eat their dinner on,
or pinkety, pink placed paintings on walls.

There’s no
welcoming, wholesome waiters or waitresses
wondering what your whereabouts are.

These are pink people
who act out of acidic awareness,
alerting an anonymous,
awaken adolescent
accepting any day
his pink parents could split
like bubble gum and its wrapper.


This shade of the color
was made to be thrown at pink people
who argue at an accelerated pace,
neither admitting anything
they’ve ever done.
This shade of the color
was made to be thrown at the dinner table
in a shabby shack of a house
with worn siding;
with them siding between
which child would go with which parent, when
neither one would function without the other.

If it weren’t for me and him,
there’d be a slim chance they’d be together.
There wouldn’t be those
pinkety, pink placed purses piled
inside a closet with
pinkety, pink pants.

If it weren’t for me and him,
there wouldn’t be
pinkety, pink flowers placed
on the kitchen table
during their anniversary.

If it weren’t for me and him,
there wouldn’t be
the pinkety, pink cards
with written worthless words
or pinkety, pink filling in dark chocolates.
If it weren’t for me and him,
there wouldn’t be
pinkety, pink consciences
or pinkety, pink indents on their ring fingers.

If it weren’t for me and him,
there wouldn’t be
pinkety, pink parents who
pinky swore they’d never leave.

If it weren’t for me and him,
things wouldn’t be as peachy
in this pinkety, pink marriage.