A La Gertrude Stein....

a white house on a white hill.
sitting like white on rice.
white as a ghost waiting for a white Christmas
but stuck, on ash wednesday.
and other shades of gray.
where this white bread is not as tasty as
the blue-plate special,
is a green room.
not green with envy.
living a white lie.
sitting at the beginning of the yellow-brick road,
wishing for more blue blood than white trash.
waiting for a red letter day,
where purple rain falls like agent orange, painting the town red.
perhaps once in a blue moon.
red rover.
red rover.
send that pink slip right over.
force that yellow belly out of its mellow yellow,
into some rose- colored glasses.
or maybe.
that’s just the pot calling the kettle .