"How do you like my hat?"
It was a catastrophe
but I couldn't tell her that.
"It's perfect. It's so you.
I especially love that patch of tartan trim
and the sweet little lamb
grazing on the brim."
as I knew she would.
A lie is best when the truth's not good.
Her hat in fact
looked like a three story house
with lots of windows
but no floor boards.
She was just a kid with who loved to sew
and had been working on it for hours.
With needle and thread she tacked
little straw flowers in places
real flowers would never grow.
They were all in a row
and in between she filled up the spaces
of people she would never know.
It was an act of contrition, that hat
and looked very much like a Picasso.
An abstract confession
of other people's sins.
She was too young
to have any of her own.
Cubism gone astray you might say
bumping into Claude Monet
and judging by those people
dancing on the roof
cavorting with Chagall along the way.
It grew on me
and so much so
my lie became the truth.
Day by day
it spoke to me in tongues
while she kept working on it.
Poem and drawing
The original version is multicolored. I like the black and white version better. I did this on MS Paint using my finger on the keyboard pad. I'm away from home and have only the computer to use when I'm feeling creative.
I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. Dylan