by Gui Faria
When a Child Draws with Crayons
Early-up old men sit outside a feed store,
chew half-smoked cigars, watch a darkness turn gray.
In the ramshackle cafe across the dirt road,
a waitress aprons-up, puts on a new,
if cheap, ebony Stetson, looks outside
at a battered '76 GMC pick-up
as an aged rancher backs it onto a patch
of broken beer bottles.
When a child
draws with crayons, the moon hangs in the sky
longer than it ever has, stops gnawing its own
fingernails and toenails, stays full for weeks
and smiles upon the lucky-to-be-living.
The waitress begins filling coffee mugs
as the early-up old men som'bitch-asshole this
and cocksucker that, as they complain about doctors,
the cost of prescriptions that half-way hold-off
artery clogs. The waitress slow-warms bacon grease
in a couple of fry pans... brags how she's going to drop
egg shells in a certain someone's scrambled ranch eggs.
When a child draws with crayons, Denim Blue,
Sunset Orange, Caribbean Green, the moon spins
so slow that it shows its secret side, the one with pools
of diamonds, the one with dancing lady bugs,
the side with forests of four-leaf clover trees.