Between the tilted lampshade and the red-lettered glow of my clock,

Held a dim witted conception… a want for rebellion of young age.

So that as I cracked open the 2-ounce tubes of paint

A stench of acrylic invaded the stagnant air

And in those forgotten, untouched hours of the day

When most of the county residents snore to the moon

The crisp swish of my square brush to the white-wall

Sung out like a muse in my 10-by-8-foot room.

My fingers mixed those gooey colors to contrive

The painted face of a wolf looking outward with curious, yellow eyes

And it wasn’t ‘til the rise of that impatient, Indiana sun

That guilt overcame the pride of all the work I had done.

I sought concealment with haste, choosing an unused blanket

I shook it out to fill the light with dust and intention.

Then with the metallic taste of two tacks held by my mouth-

I raised myself over the decoration with arms spread out.

I pinned and draped that rectangular, royal blue fabric,

So that it held like a heavy backdrop to a low-budget production,

Covering my creation and hiding the misconduct from myself.

While in private I would peel up this woolen shield,

And cast appreciative glances at the wall,

And it wasn’t until the middle of my teenage years after we moved,

That the face of the wolf had been seen by anyone else at all

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