I am the stickman you drew as a kid,
the one you flipbooked on the corners
of every Christmas catalogue that hogged
your time and pencil.
Oh how smooth you drew me – and thin.
And I remember when you gave me a bike,
rolled me right off the page, right there
at the hardwares – those Gifts For Dads.
I see you bought a sketchpad,
and some conte’s and charcoal.
I suppose you draw much fuller men now.
No, I never spoke, just eyed you.
And you didn’t see me that day at all,
that time I was jiggered on the steps
of Woolworth’s, smoking a blunt
at the corner of Fifth and Deluded, watching you.
Why? Well, I didn’t want you to see.
Or perhaps I wanted another go,
strobed and animate, not fat and gristle,
walking among the things you’ll never buy.