day seventeen.

chalk. 
-

he made chalk murals,

his hands always caked

with the ash of his art.

pinks and blues and

greens, sifting together

to form grey coating against

his working palms.

he drew a rising sun,

unfolding from the sidewalk,

to shine on forgotten flower beds.

he snuck into playgrounds

of inner-city schools,

to draw happy pictures,

something beautiful

for children who lived

in a world of locks

to wake up to.

and one night,

he crept into your driveway

and drew a woman with bare shoulders,

her back a graceful arch

her hair, fiery red

whipping around in

imaginary wind.