I wear yellow in the Winter.

My speedometer tells me more
     about how far I've driven
          than how fast I'm going;
it's very optimistic.
I wear yellow in winter;
     surrounded by blues and grays and purple.
They tell me I'm depressed;
     or maybe just an introvert.
Maybe they should just mind their own damn business.
I'm not a fucking statistic;
     75% white bread, bleached-flour whiskey-drinker
with two dogs and a cat.
          The cat has three legs.
Someday I'll buy a house with a heater and
     a real foundation;
an old house
     with stories of its own,
          footprints of the past hewing it together,
and Warmth,
Warmth that has nothing to do with mechanics
          and everything
     to do with color and touch and texture,
and wearing yellow in the winter.
Someday seems so far away, but closer every day;
     I'll know how fast I've gone when I turn to see my story,
stretching back from the aged threshold of home,
          thirteen legs making tracks behind me:
two dogs, one cat, and one girl.