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.