White Paper
In the back corner of my classroom,
I found a little green crayon,
either dropped or thrown
by a rambunctious sixth grade artist.
Rolling it around in my hand,
I walked to my desk
wondering if his other 15 friends,
or 23 or 47 or 63 or 119,
had noticed him missing.
When the found themselves
with a little extra room to lean
would they even remember
who he was exactly?
Green?
Jungle Green?
Mountain Meadow?
Knowing it impossible to find a crayon's
original box once it hit the floor,
I took out my large, well-worn Ziploc bag,
my mass grave for lost Crayola souls.
But I stopped.
I stopped and thought about
this little waxy green rebel.
Maybe he wasn't lost.
Maybe he left,
struck out on his own,
sick of being used for
grass and trees and
grass and trees,
always a thin section
in the middle of an arcing rainbow.
Maybe he was tired of being labeled
and typecast and pigeonholed.
Maybe he wanted more.
So I held him up eye level
and carefully peeled away
the section of his wrapper
that said "Green."
I took out a fresh sheet of
pristinely white paper
tracing its clean edges with
the tips of my fingers
and I drew a green sun,
shining on a green sea,
with a green sailboat,
and a green pirate
with a green eye patch
sailing under a huge rainbow
that had seven green sections.
and I drew a big green heart
around all of it.
And I keep that picture in my desk.
And I keep that little green crayon
in a jar on my desk.
And when I'm feeling Blue,
or Red,
or Yellow,
or Antique Brass,
I look at that salty sea captain,
and I roll that little crayon
around in my hand,
and I wonder how many green finger feathers
a middle of March
Thanksgiving hand turkey could have.
Poetry by Rapscallion
Read 461 times
Written on 2008-12-31 at 07:19
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