The tea coloured walls
Of my beige hotel room
Are making me feel as
as my blankets.
I should not say “my,”
for I do not, nor would wish,
to own such a beige establishment.
Though I am somewhat partial,
to tea stained walls.
I curl with the Earl in our beige blanketed bed
and, switching off all the switches
I sit in the dark.
Letting the Earl scald his was down my
Following him as he leads.
And deep within myself,
Where all is beating, pumping, pulsing
I know I am not beige.
Beige is a colour you are not
Red and purple and green and gold
Can not capture what I behold
You’re a new colour I’ll call Cat.