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