The Grays

Where others may have
the blues, I have the grays.
That this lump of a dove
with its idiotic gaze
can make such a bone-
deep moan—it’s humbling.
My own song fumbles
borrowed words, absurd.
At best, I wrest a staccato beat
from the raucous crows,
yelling here, hear and jeering
at some insomniac owl.
I’ve got the grays—but
they make me grimace
from ear to ear
like poor Yorick before
he lost his jaw.
I croon. I caw.