That watery squirt

from the mustard bottle

is the saddest yellow.

Weak and dirty-looking,

like day-old dishwater,

it doesn’t even have the

prickly tang of real

mustard.

 

Yellow must be bold or

else it risks disappearing

into the plate.

 

Not like the yellow of

sunflowers or marigolds,

or even the pale yellow

of that mustard stain

on my shirt, which

may be sad, but it

speaks to happier picnics

and sustenance

and glorious afternoons

under the sun.