I Hate The Color Yellow

Yellow is the color of the summer you went away.
It’s the buttery buttons on the Tuesday shirt,
And the stripes in the red-brown carpet of the department store we worked at.

Yellow is the color of the shoe boxes
you meticulously straighten every morning knowing that it’s futile.
It’s the lemon shaved-ice (spilled by some brat) which you are responsible for cleaning,
And the mop bucket that is so old even God can’t remember when it was made.

Yellow is the color of the converse you convinced me to buy
because you had a pair just like them.
It’s the champagne sweat on your brow as you pray for the air conditioner to start,
And the post-it note drawings enveloping the register.

Yellow is the color of Peru on the map.
It’s the tawny sand on the beaches that you walk without me,
And the crisp letters you get every week from your mother.
 

Yellow is the color of the fever sweeping the nation.
It’s the sunburned decay of the decomposing brick buildings,
And the jaundiced pagans you sought out to convert.

I hate the color yellow.
It’s the heart shaped stain you left on my memory
And the only thing I have left.