Everyday, he wore pink.

It told people about him, and the fact that he didn’t care. C’est la vie. Non. C’est la vie en rose.

How many times, had he barely made it home on that broken bicycle after dark, with names being called from the eaves of brownstones?

How many times until they saw life was pretty with rose, ou rouge, ou bleu, ou jaune, ou marron ?

How many times would he bury the thoughts that maybe, he should wear another colour?

A colour that said nothing about him.