Today You Were a Drawing Made of Scraps

Today you were a drawing made of scraps. The caps

had been left off a slew of markers and the few that worked

at all bore only vestiges of greenish hues which had to be

pressed exigently into spaces left by other hues which

gasped their last before they could quite reach the vulgar

thick black outlines dominating everything – product

of the only writing implement available that was sufficient

to its task, which far more usually had to do with slashing

arrow marks on parking signs in used car lots than delicately

teasing out the sense and sensibility you’d wished your

failing unavailing parts had had the least capacity to bring up

even to the lowest of level of the arts. And what good could

be said of the haphazard farts of charcoal that a crumbling

piece of that dread messy substance had affixed to this:

if blowing off at every zephyr could be said to be affixed.

The hastily assembled seven-legged man-headed thing

whose butt was poodle-pom-pom-tailed was, well, the final

testament to the incontrovertible sad truth that it, and you

(because today, that 'it' was you) had failed. Because

today you were a drawing made of scraps. Somewhere

someone thought he or she heard a kazoo play taps.

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