I place his hand-drawn cartoon on the wall.
This is called strange love.
Taped with a piece of him to my memory,
like archaic insects calcified in amber,
It is rendered with pencil,
as if in some silly 2-D world,
stipplings of stubble
on the gentleman’s
five o’clock shadow
call out for a giggle
or at least
a raised eyebrow.
I have plans for these characters,
(10 in all).
I will not let them slip from my sight,
to scurry down the textured walls and
lose themselves in dust,
floor cracks, soda spills,
I won’t fold them either when
Summer comes, overexposing them
through slits in my blinds’ slats,
parts from my side like an appendix,
like my mirror image cracked
And if anyone is worried about how
the drawings ripped at the fringes,
eaten away at the edges
like sunburnt clouds,
I’ll tell them my pet rat Timicka
scratched them down from Heaven
when I wasn’t looking.