The sky is mist or fog or overcast
but nothing azure radiates today,
and nowhere here have vernal clouds amassed
so I am blue from breathing under gray.
“I love the fog and I don’t miss the sun,”
are words I think and often used to say,
but if this afternoon is to be fun,
then I require brilliance any way.

My disposition’s dulled by too much wine
and spicy food and courtesy’s demands.
Except for eager irritation, mine
is attitude that coma understands.
So give me golden warmth and piercing bright,
that I may see my shadow in the light.