The little artist inside me sees only what he wants to see.

He opens a TV tray in the living room of memory

and places on top of it a blank piece of paper,

connecting his world to a wisdom as serious as hunting.

He believes there’s something about waking up at 5

every Sunday morning to carve the spirit out of a drawing.

Empowered by this world he’s created out of himself

you could throw a pencil into the air around him

and it would bounce off it like an x-wing off a shield.

When he’s finished drawing his picture of a Plesiosaurus

he flops back across the surface of the Jurassic

in just a few seconds to show me.

I tell him you must have had to practically swim up to it

to get it like that and he says yeah, but

drawing’s not as hard as staring at a blank piece of paper.