For my son Ethan, the budding artist...
we are goggle eyed
hovering in the air
like waifs with spindle
arms. handless.
appendages speared
haphazardly into our
circular torsos. we smile
although with absent
noses we can’t
smell the lead filling
our bones. our single
line check mark mouths
remain mute in our
white paper existence.
my son is armed with
his pencil and says,
I made this for you.
he offers it like a rare
flower bouquet he might
have made on the
side of a road on
a Caribbean island.
and so precious it
is to me, like a gem
encrusted with the
warmth of the summer
ocean.
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