Pick a Color

Paint it grey, no red.
Wait, perhaps there's
a taupe color that might
work with this rug, the chair,
the drapes, the ottoman
way over there. Her hands
are on her hips, cell phone
to her ear, she has all the time
in the world. I have none.
I'm trying to work, make
a living, but this seems
to escape her. She pulls out
a fan. A chart of a thousand
colors and begins to read
them out loud. Blue moon, red
clay, egg yellow, Christmas
green, aligning the chips against
the fabrics. And I stand there ,
paint brush in hand, roller
in it's tray, dry and waiting.
She won't choose though,
it's too hard, nearly impossible,
and so it goes, and I know that
I won't get paid today. She
pours me coffee, tells me to sit,
to help her with the colors.
She doesn't see how weary
I am, even at eight in the
morning with nowhere else
to go. So I smile, I point
and offer a suggestion or two
about the greens, the yellows,
the blues. She asks me how
I feel about vermillion.