there are three of them:
like three rectangular eyeballs rolling,
scoffing from my dining room table.
and i'm supposed to paint them.
but i don't know how
to ask the colours what they mean;
to wander in fields of abstraction
and find my balance;
to trace the edges of shadows and
hold them up to the light
like a gift.
i'm a photo-realism kind of grown-up
and i've forgotten how to play.
to believe in what i cannot see
until it becomes art:
sock feet waltzing across living room rug;
wrinkled hands splashing bath tub bubbles;
voice warbling songs never before sung.
it's time to finger-paint.
wandering over to emily's place