BB Grey–musings

Another morning creeps in,
rain flirting with cold,
teasing snow,
not to clean the mess
but to blanket sin—
a frail shroud over oil slicks,
debris,
black hearts
still slinking beneath,
white or wet be damned.

At least the tears—
that noisy splatter on metal roofs—
hush under the drift.
You can fake it now,
pretend the sobbing’s done,
that clouds—
those fat, fluffy angora tufts—
spin gray to white,
weaving a sweater
soft enough to fool you.

I shovel heaps of this manna,
piles that won’t hold,
feeding no one.
And still,
we starve—
wondering why
the cover’s never enough.