The Day Harold Lemon Became

Prose, even his own farts betrayed him
became ordinary and bland, not even much
sound really. And what fun is there without
sound? His clothes appeared to be three tints
off – no depth, too much white and his ties!
Harold had always been known for the vocabulary
of his ties – orange, yellow, indigo with ruby
stripes, dots, even cartoons and seasonal themes.
Suddenly, all brown, navy, shades of grey
not even the clarity found in black and white.
They say he sort of went crazy after that
but nobody knows for sure because he stopped –
stopped talking, working, fucking, drinking
even smoking which he used to enjoy
sucking that cigarette until the bitter end
propped up against some fashionable shop wall
in his pinstripes and button down crisp shirts
eyes darting through the crowd to find something
anything, someone interesting and as he ground
that butt intently under the heel of his polished shoe
his other foot had already left the ground, striding
towards the next unsuspecting and most
beautiful
.