The Reconstructed

you are in this chair, in this place for a few moments. I sketch your large head, rush through your body like it’s unimportant, to capture the features of the ego that makes you uniquely beautiful. I feel as if I’ve known you, but it is ethereal, known in relation to a few places and a few people, eluding the intimacy that keeps me from your wounds and worries which are what I must hold, to gain your trust. instead I capture part of you in this 15 dollar sketch you’ve kept of yourself for amusement, forgetting the artist.

this image you will use to laugh at yourself, studying your features or flaws, ignoring your admirers, wanting to be painted by and for numbers, without connection.

it is night now. I pack away my fine point marker and colored pencils, tuck away my tips, fold my easel and stools as a caricature of an artist that Joyce did not bother to write about. there is still time, I tell myself, there are dreams to be had. it is hard to walk and fit in the car with a head so big and legs so small, hard to carry these things and keep my balance. hard to go anywhere without wishing you knew my name. maybe, I should have written mine instead of yours so bold.