COVID May Gray

There is no color in my world except the redbud out the bathroom 

                                                                    window,
the royal blue sweater I'm wearing, the reticent green of the spider 

                                                                    plant
creeping out of a nest of dry brown coxae. May neighborhood 

                                                                       memories:
cut grass and red sauce from an open window I passed at the corner
of Mayville and Elmbank, a house with canvas awnings and neat lawn
setting off the pale robes of the virgin the lady of the house
looked out at for sustenance, her hands deep in Palmolive and grease.
I take the pink azalea as a symbol of the nation: two roots piping out
of the miserly clay, one leading to a gnarl of beige unfruitfulness
while the other flowers the imperative of spring, an asymmetrical song.
So that's another color, giving the lie to my assertion. If I look hard,
this poem's whole premise falls apart. The husband at the corner
of Mayville and Elmbank turned out to be abusive. I never saw the 

                                                                                    wife.
If we seek and ingest as much color as we can, will that make us 

                                                                                 immune?