ART ROOM
When my hinges snap open,
a sprinkled cake-like doughnut is propelled
out of its small compartment in the rusty lunch pail.
My grade school doppelganger lurks;
her gleaming deviant eyes are lures
on the periphery of the art room. She peers into narrow gaps
in the makeshift pyramid of bulk-sized tubs. She peeks under lids
- thick, bright paint is a secret treasure
of melted-down gems, exotic bugs, robotic fingernails aflame.
She reminds me not to dilute with water before I apply it;
not to listen to those strict instructors
who want to confiscate my over-saturated bristling,
dripping sticky beads. I will dip, dollop, streak,
crush medicinal leeches between my teeth. I will spit,
swizzle, swish, offer you a vibrant curlicue
with fuzzy caterpillar legs and stained fingertips.
With improvised supplies, I will mutinize
slick vials of pigment, glitter, glaze. Get tipsy
with the weight of what is stashed in my pockets,
soon to be splashed upon the page. Soon to be stirred and baked
into a special funnel-esque cake shaped like a poem.
