Cheap Cobalt

It sat there, chipped and proud, in dusty glass,

a thrift store window, letting hours pass.

A planter, fat and round, a shocking blue,

not sky, not ocean, nothing clean or true.

This was the blue of cheap hotels, of fake,

of plastic flowers, or a bad headache.

But oh, it sang. Against the faded peach

of the couch behind it, just beyond my reach,

it held the light, a brutal, brazen gleam.

Like something vital, ripped right from a dream.

So artificial, yet so true to self,

forgotten beauty, sitting on a shelf.

It hurt my eyes, that loud, unyielding shade,

a desperate statement, beautifully made.

And I, who walk in grays, saw my own shame

in that defiant, cheap, electric flame.