Radiant with contempt
for me in my dull tan
Mackintosh, you jostle me
with your transistor radios
in Prince's street.

You annihilate my gray-porridge world
with your patent-leather
clad buttocks, scorning all I still hold
decent public behavior.

I try to smile at your spiky, red, green
yellow, jet-black hair,
your tragic arrogance,
your funny innocence and
shift my shopping bag in which I have
some soap, a washcloth, a notebook,
a few of those civilized, domestic
items you ridicule,

I am humiliated, it's true,
by age, by pain, by you.
Yet I know something you have yet to learn
Life has trapped us both
between yesterday and tomorrow.
It doesn't matter what color our hair is.