joy-drawing

me at three:
in chubby fist
i clutch a red crayon.
my Daddy will be home soon.
berry-apple-fire-truck-red
dances around my paper.
my Daddy will be home soon.
the front door creaks;
his big shoes clump.
my Daddy is home soon.
i give him the red on my paper
and a little-chin-on-his-knees hug.
my Daddy is happy to be home soon.

now i am twenty-two, fretful
over "composition" and "technique"
my Daddy's home-coming forgotten.
i twist my soul to study
other's invented hues;
my Daddy might like them better.
i scorn the scribbling that once i loved;
seeking perfection at others' schools.
i know my Daddy will like this better.
no joy-drawings now;
washed-out intellectual games
do i give my Daddy.

i want to be three again