Drew a picture, half asleep,
Sunshine and a fountain
And of toys you put away
And pine for quietly when life is loudest.
And of story-shaped clothes that don’t fit into my suitcase.
I coloured it in, on crinkled paper
picked up from a floor
Stained with striving too hard,
Then tied it up in a reluctant fantasy
Before it rolled under my bed
between Monopoly and a laptop and two piles of empty resolutions;
Into a childhood home
Out of a hospital waiting room
Between words of farewell
Above a memory fog
And out of my reach.
In following it I forgot to notice
When I was drawn and coloured in
Paint struggling at the lines,
Aging with revolt.
Someone called it modern art.
And I rolled into reach.