In white wash, pale, gaunt stainless pubs,
Clubs,
and late night bars,
Where bleached sterile colourless colded,
Folded,
thoughts neatly stored away,
Bored away,
with stilted disinfected clean,
Entertainment machines,
drinkeries and chameleon venues,
Where you
absorb the sharp clean lines,
Defines,
delineates too clearly the contrasts,
Nothing lasts.
No,
Give me the scars and finger-marked doors,
Foot-worn floors,
and mascara-run paint,
Faint,
lights and shadows,
Of the hallowed,
sacred solitude of the men’s room,
Midnight moon,
hued walls, but I’ll remember just this:
The colour of Cocoa Mist.