Insufferable Orange Poem by Mark Heathcote

Whatever love is leftover, I'll take it, I thought.
I often waited despondent and uncomplaining
I'd tell myself this was all just bad timing, be patient.
She will show another side of herself, I'm sure,
I'm sure when all her daily chores are quite-done
and she has rested, I'll see a begrudging smile,
she'll spit on her apron and rub my face red raw.
And a warm hand will leave her dress pocket to comb my hair.
Eternal hope enters my cold desolate bedroom;
I was so happy my bed sheets were creaseless
and folded fittingly tight into the bottom corners
and smelt morning fresh; I felt proud of her diligence
and her tidy perceptiveness for stale army-like detail
and yet she painted my room a tangerine orange.
I'd watch the pigeons circling, grey on grey,
I was glad my banality was living life unloved in orange,
insufferable orange; like the sunflower stalk
dreams the sun is its only maternal mother.