The Color Brown

by: Philip Pompetti

I sit in a room with all of my friends,

each of us seemingly deep in our thoughts.

Restless, we wait for days yet to arrive.

The little brown room we occupy is

all that our eyes can hope to clearly see.

Brown. A color. A description to use

when you equate something with what is gross.

But in our little room, we are the kings.

And we have just decreed the color brown

to be on the banners of our kingdom.

Quaint. An adjective. What this little room is.

We pack ourselves in here like too many

olives that have been stuffed into a can.

Yet the coziness comforts us most days.

If only this brown room was ours to keep.

One day, someday soon, we will have to leave.

Like any place that I have had to leave,

I will cherish the times that I have had,

and the memories shared will never cease.

Oh, to be able to hold them always.

I was led to think, ‘all good things must end’,

but as long as I remember, this room

will never fully fade from memory.

Knowing this is the prescription to the

disease that is called ‘forgotten’

I sit in a room with all of my friends,

each of us seemingly deep in our thoughts.

Restless, we wait for days yet to arrive.

The little brown room we occupy is

the most stable thing we have in our lives.

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