white Noise

there is no color for emotional poverty inside the 96 crayon box
privileged children have no room for sympathy
inside black and white areas

burnt sienna built my houses of wax
my sun burned goldenrod
I gave him black sunglasses so he could look at his
reflection
without melting his eyes
onto lemon green landscapes

I prayed to God with cadet blue
scribbled pale words onto postcards and sent them
to the post office
I wonder if they reached him
wonder if he appreciated the color scheme

there is no color for miscommunication inside the 96 crayon box
I imagine it would be called white noise
for the sound of hearts bursting into seashells
pretending themselves to be oceans

I asked you
how do I tell someone I’ve made a mistake

but all I heard was static