Draftsman

I used to be a prodigy of the Sunday funnies,

mapping out muscles and the curve of a hoof.

Now, the kid looks at the paper with a pity

that only a six-year-old can really weaponize.

My sister is out in the lot, a silent movie

flailing her arms at the man she used to love.

I try to draw a stallion to keep the peace,

but its neck is a jagged, impossible mistake.

The blue ink smudges on the damp napkin,

a blur of perspective where the bone should be.

I’ve spent twenty years learning how to work,

and forgotten how to make a line behave for free.