Lost Line

My mother said the oak tree water-color

was 'pretty little,' then her voice went colder.

She told me how I can't even, these days, try

coloring inside the lines, and she's not wrong, am I?

This dog, a friend's, was just a blur of brown and fuzz,

but on the napkin, what it became, it just

was a lumpy thing, a melted spud with eyes

drawn wrong, beneath bad coffee skies.

I used to draw horses, sleek and strong,

the muscles, the mane, never for long

without a perfect eye for where to place the shade.

Now I hold this crumpled thing, a mess I made.

It smells of lukewarm java, and my shame.

Another thing I've ruined, called by name.

That easy grace, that childhood skill,

does not come back. It just lies still.