The red sun rakes the grass,
caressing the metal holding the hefty
tabletop desk,
where he vigorously scribbles his visions
on the paper, bowing and stretching
to the breeze,
held down by his left,
pictures etched with his right.
Lead whiskers coordinated on the page,
his hand blends shapes in the page,
morphed from ideas in his mind.
He is occasionally mindful
of the vast meadows
surrounding him,
preserving him and his
flavor of the arts.
Sitting in my small black box,
this pinhole camera reflects
his perfections on the wall
like filming April Fools
onto my forehand.
I try and fail
to imitate his art
like an ape imitating
human lifestyle.
I am trapped
in the zookeeper’s cage.
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