The ArtistHis handsshaped of squares,connected tofingers flowing.Spasticallyspewing marks from his mindonto his paper podium.His idea agedby three days,conception and birth,all in three days.I now witness growth.He nurtures it along correcting it by erasures,all lines coming togetherlike experiences received by aging.Disciplining with deep dark depressionscarved swiftly into the paper's flesh.Now adulthood approaches.His hands shaped of squares.Gently, brush off erasure debris.He sees me watching,as he glances to seewhere the debris has landed.He smiles proudly....
