When Black is the Color

Black really is the color.
The light just wants to spoil it.
Or, at least,
give both predator and prey
an equal chance.

That’s why he no longer bothers
with daytime stalking.
Even the most vulnerable
can see him coming.
There are no blind-spots.
Hallways are brightly lit.
The alleys are streaked
with unapologetic rays.

So night it has to be.
When shadows are so full
of themselves,
everything is shadow.
And vision is more miss than hit.
Except for his own.
Catlike, his focus
cuts through the murk,
creates fully-detailed victims
out of fleeting shapes.

He even hums "Strangers In The Night"
as he goes about his business.
Or that old folk song,
"Black Is The Color."
Yes, black really is the color.
Red can only splash and splatter.
in the one place,
the one unfortunate body.
But black is everywhere.
No head should be without it.


John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review.