I’m going
to paint the sky, I tell them
I’ll
start with blue
And then
add in those puffy white blobs of
Condensed
water vapor.
Then
someone says
That it
looks nothing like the sky
They take
my brush and paint in
Fleet of
planes patrolling the sky
For some
unseen enemy of their king.
The
environmentalist begs to differ
Shouting
from atop her leafy perch.
She
snatches the brush and slathers on brownish grey
Blobs of
yellow and green
Swaths of
black that drip onto my hat
And calls
it smog.
Everyone
wants their own piece of sky.
They
climb up my ladder and knock me down; they say I’m doing it wrong
Everyone
wants their own paint blob
Don’t
forget witches on their brooms, shouts a girl in a black cloak
Spaceships
for all unrepresented aliens, screams a robot
Blimps
and balloons, kites and cats, TARDISes and tornadoes
Everyone
wants their own piece of sky.
And when
they’re finally finished
The sky
looks anything but
Even
Jackson Pollock on an LSD trip couldn’t make this mess.
Everyone
looks up, disappointed at what they’ve done.
The sky
is ruined, a trash heap of reality
Everyone
wanted their own piece.
I’m going
to paint the earth, I tell them
I’ll
start with blue, then green
And then
add in those puffy white blobs of
Condensed
water vapor.
I sit
back, and draw in a small stick figure on North America
And she
is alone, satisfied, and can paint however she wants.