elegy for a box of crayon 

i found a box of crayons 
open on the sidewalk: red crayon snapped
& blue crayon crushed. i passed it on my walks 
around & around my block. i am 
an orbiting animal. i like my patterns.
open, a flip book of the crayons 
degenerating. crumbling into 
waxy grit. the cardboard box 
wilting into muck. i think of the crayon box
even when i'm not on a walk. 
in a dream, i reach for the yellow crayon
& i scribble in the sun until 
it has all those little pointy rays
everyone is always drawing the sun with. 
really, the sun is a radiant rubber ball
waiting waiting to bounce. a playground
thrums in my soul where i send my fingers 
to try & finally learn the monkey bars.
i was too fat for monkey bars
when i was little. instead, my dad held my waist
& let me pretend to swing from them.
a pack of crayons bloomed in my pocket.
i wake up with orange in my mouth 
& i spit it out in the sink. 
all the cars are becoming more 
poorly drawn. have you ever tried--
really tried to draw a horse?
they have terrifying architecture.
the crayons are fading rapidly.
i visit them more & more. i loom 
over their desctruction. this is not
a huge pack of colors. this is 
just the basics: rainbow. gay pride.
the crayons are rooting for me 
even in their demise. a car passes me.
another & another i feel like
an animation. someone is drawing
every single frame. bent over a desk.
i hold up my hand
& see the wobbly lines. yellow 
is the kind of color easily forgot.
everyone wants to be blue but i know 
i'm realy probably green or even 
indigo. maybe i'm being too generous.
maybe i'm yellow. the day will come
when the crayons are completely dispersed.
i'll look at the ground & see nothing
but a smudge beside
another smashed snail shell. 
behind my eyelids, someone is scribbling blue.
i am grateful for their diligance.
i can't color anything in to save my life.
i live in a room of half-filled-in objects.
my bed: pale at the top. my dressed,
empty in the back. under my door
a green crayon rolls. i draw myself 
a potted fern. it's not too bad.
the fern speaks on in shades of green:
neon, evergreen, mint.

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