I'm really not in the mood.
I'm carrying around gray crayons
to color up the world in muted tones.
It's my form of adult-onset-pouting.
I can color up the sky
to make it cloudy
and dull down the smile
of the underpaid barista.
There's a perverse kind of pleasure
in scribbling over any obscenely happy
poppy red or daffodil yellow.
Is that pink? Blasphemy!
This must be dealt with.
When everything's a charcoal hue,
I can finally sit down
in a contented grump
and sip the coffee I stirred
with Crayola slate-gray
It's that kind of not-in-the-mood.