I'm enjoying a rare visit from my father, he never ceases to amaze me.
The Hobo
Glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose
He brings the pencil to his mouth
Habitually licking the tip before placing it to paper
"You know, when I draw these guys, it's like
I am drawing somebody who had already lived,
and I am here, telling his story here on the page."
"It's like I don't know who it's going to be 'till they come out,
they have personalities, tools or beers in their hands,
dressed for whatever they do... characters!"
I smile, brush the soft fine hair from his forehead
And replace it with a gentle kiss
"That's what makes you true artist Dad."
"Bah", he says, "I'm just a semi-retired publican."
His regretful eyes return to his drawing, and I watch
Like I did as a girl, and in minutes, he creates "The Hobo".
Poetry by Purple Phoenix
Read 895 times
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Written on 2009-05-21 at 06:18
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