I felt bold. Bold. Bold as a box of bright crayons on gray recycled paper.
A rectangular page ripped from a Cinderella coloring book,
That utility box of Crayolas, ten predictable shades
Blue, Yellow, Red, Purple, Green, Brown, Orange, Pink, Black, and White
Primary to primal.
A rainbowed Decalogue stains the cheap pages
To color Cinderella in her temporary magical dress
Losing. Losing. Losing her damn glass slipper.
Graffiti without boundaries,
Void of trained aesthetics, haphazard, fearless.
A picture to reflect the stunted artist
Not for public display. The ten shades reveal a blushing testament.
What is to be done with this? This. This rendering by a frantic child?
Paint over it. Disguise the disgrace.
Slather over the mistakes with black ooze and let it dry.
Etch out a design. No, scratch out a warning—
Don’t. Don’t. Don’t waltz with strangers, Prince Charmings, narcissists.
Toss the testament in the trash with the glass slippers.
Abandon it. The mockery, the etched remnant.
Find a fresh page of thick bleached parchment.
New. New. New from a coloring book for grown-ups.
Purchase the jumbo box of crayons—ninety-six shades, nearly one-hundred hues.
Remember. Remember. Remember sitting at the table, one summer in the early‘80s.
“Use circles,” mom instructed, making bold impressions, not feeble scribbles.
Shades of blossoming pinks filled the empty space between lines.
Sunrise-tinged flowers of carnation, salmon, and fuschia.
Take the new page.
Grasp the renewed legacy.
Create. Create. Create again and again and again.
Capture the shades between bold and afraid.
There is no end.