my mother got a "C" in art.
she found books then-
their pages comfort her,
and the latest bestseller
is sitting on our kitchen table
years of books claim her.
the cold quiet of
shelves and dust,
putting each published world
in its proper place
to wait again until
its mystery is
unlocked once more and
its secrets lay open
on a hefty table.
i tried to write a book once.
i turned my pencil
over and over in confused hands
with blank eyes
and nothing really to say.
my unicorns pranced across the lines
afterwards as if in
lofty superiority-
a picture is worth a thousand words.
so here's the book.
no fairy tale, no suspense
no plot
only my own art on paper
where one draws thoughts.
