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Red stains never want to come out,

clutching sheets for dear life,

clawing their way up clothes,

up a pants leg, a torso, a collar, like stubborn red stains.

until everything is bathed in red.

Blood and tomatoes and jam.

The color red is where they meet,

and to a stranger’s weary eyes

the red stain is everything

If only they even notice it. Befriending the red stains is inevitable.

Always a little larger, longer

than when last you looked.

Always embarrassing, crass,

and even a little suspicious.

Mommy, why is that man red?

Look away, look away, child,

because no one ever knows

and curiosity could kill.

All we know, will ever know;

something has gone wrong.

Hopefully small, a charming nothing,

a funny footnote after lunch

but maybe big, maybe something, like when red stains refuse to fade.

and so nobody ever asks.

But what a shame to never know,

to never ask the stained men

to share the story of the day.

It might be cruelly gruesome, true,

or might be trivial and trite,

but what if the tale they tell

could keep you giggling gleefully

all throughout this cold, blue night?


For poetry and more, visit Mecella.

by Brad Robertson

Published on October 29, 2024