The Wrong Colour

By | 16 August 2019

The tea room on the top floor of our workplace
looked down the street to the hospital.

One morning someone at our table
asked ‘what’s the oily smoke coming from atop the hospital?’

Unwittingly, I said, being a hospital,
they could be burning flesh.

My companion, a Russian and a long since refugee from Reich Three
fixed my gaze with round steely Slavic eyes.

From one metre, over her tea
she said, emphatically

‘wrong colour’.

This entry was posted in 92: NO THEME VIII and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.