G. C. Jeffers

Brown

hardwood floors

like the color of a guitar heard

in muted light while

organic fair-trade coffee lingers

in your mouth and paintdrops

reflect off the barista’s square

framed glasses

Green

grass stains on white socks

like the color of a Kinkade field

vibrating with light near a cottage

hanging in Grandma’s house

amidst the competitive smells

of fried okra and chocolate

chip cookies

Gray

rain-laden clouds

like the color of an elephant

standing in a zoo as gawkers

stare and collect photographs

like poachers collect ivory,

reducing his size to so many

pixels

Yellow

freshly shucked corn

like the color of a sunbeam

on the horizon as you dirve

through fields of windmills

while George Strait tempts

you to walk away from your

PhD