The stick man

I draw every morning

has a big head,

big enough to take on the day


I can draw his mouth a smile

in one upswing of my pencil,

a grimace in a downward curve,

dash a checkmark for his nose


I cannot predict which way

my pencil goes;

Applehead guides

it with his vacant brain


The single curly hair

on the dent of his head

flips with his face side to side


No ears or forehead wrinkles,

no worries but for mine,

only mystery in his tiny, dotted eyes


A continuous straight line

connects head to groin;

stick arms end in pointy fingers,

legs in oblong bulbs


Applehead marches briskly

down the sidewalk beside me,

the only real friend of my many lives