On a rampage again, the crazy man of the house

came looking next for me but I had a dark closet,

a flashlight, a pencil and a little brown paper sack


On it, I drew routes of escape, faces, shapes,

bounced by the flashlight off hanging clothes


Words I put together made pictures of places

I would rather be, under trees, by lakes, where

no crashing around, no slamming of doors, would be


I drew waters flowing, the sun’s rays, smiles, lines

of no description other than to say they had no direction


The most of me was in it  No one knew

what I had hidden in there or my plan to bury it

in the backyard behind the box elder tree


Only I and the yellow chewed around #10 pencil

knew the brown paper sack contained the little hope

I had left, and the gospel according to me