Colors

A straight grey man,
He believes in discipline.
Before the accident he was measured,
Now he is firm.

Not as self controlled,
Recovering from a buried husband
She entered with children and issues,
Eyes that easily, often, turned red.

He seemed frustrated.
No joy from stepsons,
No all American family here.
Could I be wrong,
And this is that red, white, and blue family?

He had lived through a spinal injury
That robbed him of diving and running.
Each day planned around his wheelchair,
A black and white, binary, existence.

He’d accepted wife and her children,
Assumed straight talk, without imposing his
Gold bars, to convey his rank and power
Would yield a harvest of family.

For her part this different man,
Needing care and understanding
Not a white grey mist of confusion.
This was not her dream or savior.

Both struggle with depression,
A black presence, makes its home
In the cracks, presses to drive deeper.
A quintessential American story.