Shades of Gray

From the porch; from the room with windows and two
peeling gray painted doors; from outside where the birds
stay silent in their sleep above his head; and from the trails

of smoke that drift like thoughts and from the air
it cuts; from the always-present smells of grime when dew
melts away and leaves its fingerprints of fine powder

in the morning; from the cigarette; from the fingers that struck
the matches; from the dirt that clings like coffee stains under his nails
and shirt; from the smog he breathes, settling in his lungs.

It followed him like the stray he fed. It whispered in the air
like the sirens that call far in the distance. It was in the clinks
of the engine when he drove the rattling pieces of his car

to and from work everyday. It stuck to his hands like gloves.
If he were to play music, it would pluck at each note.
If he were to drive, it would turn the wheel to make his drives last

a little longer. It was the memories. It was the pictures
of his children, folded down the middle so they fit
into the envelopes they sent him. I would see him leave

in the night slipping on his running sneakers and softly pushing
the door closed behind; he would run down Westheimer. He was
like a wave never quite reaching far enough to escape his ocean.