It's a cage, this beige.
It's not chocolate, khaki or sandy. It's just blaheige.
It's something that those Kiwi cricketers of the 1980s wore,
or what spies should wear like Harry Potter's invisible cloak.
An orange or pink is cataclysmically anathema to them.
Life - be it black or white or even grey is fine,
but what if it is beige?
Beige is not a blaze, it is a pale brown
that afraid of the sun, is hiding in the shade.
It celebrates obscurity, makes one anonymous.
Concealing individuality, like fruits in a crate.
It is neutral, like Switzerland.
But my dog dad socks peek out,
and leave me exposed in this universe full of dullards -
A flamenco dancer in a room full of people flossing*.
(*The floss or flossing is a dance move in which a person repeatedly swings their arms, with clenched fists, from the back of their body to the front, on each side. The name comes from the moves themselves, which involve 'a lot of fast arms and hip swings as though using a huge, invisible piece of dental floss'.)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem