Almost the light that allows for sight.
The sight the sparrow sees and sighs, but that’s not me.
I’m not quite white, nor brown.
What I am is the lightened coffee
so your day doesn’t start so bitter.
What I am is the aged page that has been read
one thousand times;
Not by choice but by force of teacher.
That same teacher handed you a cheap folder without pockets on the first day of school
to hold writing assignments.
That folder is my color.
What I am is the scorching sand you step and settle on
as you approach the sea.
What I am is skin,
easily turned red by the scrapes as you slide sprucely down the sidewalk.
Sidewalk chalk that is beige.