avatarAlison McBain

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Abstract

It is studded by blemishes — clouds smeared by the oily effervescence of sunrises, sunsets, bisected by rainbows, vivisected by the worm-trails of airplanes. Half the time it is blackish, covered with shining whiteheads popping and reforming like the face of a teenage chocoholic. No, the sky is not blue nor black nor grey when rain threatens (don’t let me say shades of grey, for it is far too tame for <i>that</i>).</p><p id="2db3">If marketing the sky, I’d call it a feature, but I’m afraid no one wo

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uld buy an unnamable product, so it would sit on the shelf gathering dust until the next new thing breezed in and someone dumped it in the dustbin or sold it to the discount store down the street and an older lady bought it for 99 cents even though she didn’t know quite what to do with it, a slightly shabby, not quite new puzzle of a thing. Her cat would sleep on it (cats, perhaps — or maybe a small Pomeranian) and it would get covered in fur, rolled up in a corner and forgotten.</p></article></body>

Tinged

A poem about selling the sky

Photo by Jordan Steranka on Unsplash

I hate to argue with you, but I must say the sky is not blue. It is studded by blemishes — clouds smeared by the oily effervescence of sunrises, sunsets, bisected by rainbows, vivisected by the worm-trails of airplanes. Half the time it is blackish, covered with shining whiteheads popping and reforming like the face of a teenage chocoholic. No, the sky is not blue nor black nor grey when rain threatens (don’t let me say shades of grey, for it is far too tame for that).

If marketing the sky, I’d call it a feature, but I’m afraid no one would buy an unnamable product, so it would sit on the shelf gathering dust until the next new thing breezed in and someone dumped it in the dustbin or sold it to the discount store down the street and an older lady bought it for 99 cents even though she didn’t know quite what to do with it, a slightly shabby, not quite new puzzle of a thing. Her cat would sleep on it (cats, perhaps — or maybe a small Pomeranian) and it would get covered in fur, rolled up in a corner and forgotten.

Poetry
Poem
Sky
Humor
Satire
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