Gone Beige
Suzanne flopped into a seat
at the back of the crosstown bus.
From her purse, she dug out
a letter from Heather,
her high school friend.
Heather’s letters once had been
live-wire accounts of her
(mostly after dark) adventures,
people (mostly guys) she’d met
and dreams she had
(to become famous or die).
These letters were penned casually
on whatever paper was available—
one on the flipside of a handbill
advertising a strip club.
About a year ago,
parental heat had finally
boiled Heather into declaring
a major: Law.
Soon after, Suzanne started
receiving letters in
small beige envelopes, written
in compacted blue script
on no more than a page or two
of six-by-nine-inch paper—
terse summaries of countless
courses of Law yadda-yadda—
which were as colorless as the pages
on which they were written.
Suzanne, handling the unread letter
as if it were toxic waste,
let it fly from her fingers
out an open window.
Heather had gone beige—
and Suzanne didn’t know
if the bug was contagious.
©2021 Jack Phillips Lowe All rights reserved.
Jack Phillips Lowe is a proud, lifelong Chicago resident. His poems have appeared in Trajectory Magazine, Two Drops of Ink and 1870. His most recent book is Flashbulb Danger (Middle Island Press, 2018).