I drew an elephant.
It’s the only thing I ever drew
that ever came close to resembling, what it was.
Perhaps that’s why I remember it, all these many years later.
I colored it gray, and it hung on the wall in Mrs. Beyersdorf’s classroom
in among all the other
little unintentional, avant-garde Picasso’s.
I was a proud realist, seemingly surrounded
by a gallery of nonlinear perspectives,
and other surreal imagery.
A true artist
alone in his gallant fight
against the mob of popular opinion of the day.
The purple dogs and red cats, the half fish people,
the blue pumpkins the size of houses.
There I was, my elephant and green palm tree
on a paper crusade, under a yellow sun.