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 could 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-on #2 pencil knew
my little brown paper sack contained what
I had left of hope and the gospel according to me