According to the rainbow poster
on the door of our art room,
all children are artists.
The trick is in the not forgetting
as we grow up.
I solemnly swear
I will never forget.
I am an artist.
Love to daydream for long
cat stretches of time.
My teachers all hate this, want me to click
back to their boring station.
Except the art teacher
who praises what comes out:
a pouting papier-mâché mask
a picture garden of watercolors
a purring charcoal drawing.
The school hallways, a gallery
promoting my efforts, proof I’m here
if not always present,
as I curl into my warm imagination.
I am watching
patiently because
I was made
for something special.
I don’t know when or
from where or even
what it is
but I will recognize it
when it comes.