Gray and I wear our long faces,
salt and pepper beards, foggy eyes,
contemplate growing old,
mope about in expert melancholy,
residue of unremitting winters,
relics of this gunmetal northern climate.
Gray and I like the inner city,
abhor babies and children with sunny dispositions,
rise late in the day from our beds of ashes,
wiping the sleep from our smoky beards
to spend fruitless hours gallumphing in the night
Gray and I assume a grumpy nonchalance slouching
down the avenue
avoiding all things not black or white,
wheedling and coaxing the faceless ladies,
smiling in hoary abandonment at our tasteless innuendo,
but if you look closely,
our smiles are an act.
Gray and I have the power of transmogrification,
ballooning up like a large animal, an elephant or hippo,
cowering down like a rabbit or wombat,
playing it cute like a kitten.
Kittens sometimes tell lies.