Crayola Masterpieces
by Odin Roark

Throughout the city
Homeless families gripping tight their possessions,
Their children plodding behind,
Cherish the Spartan utility of string cocooning them together,
If but in their minds.

In the distance, a frail man
Easily ignored or passed over,
Sees hope of survival in his own blurred vision,
As he too clings to objects defining his life:
Stubby crayon,
Worn sketchbook,
And a hiker’s discarded headlamp,
Its shattered lens still welcomed him
Each night into its circle of light.

Without his tiny cache of possessions,
These loyal friends without expectations,
Void of demands,
Needful of but care,
Life might fade.

His weathered face
Reflects acceptance on the windshield
He so carefully cleans,
As the light turns green,
Creating another moment to remember,
As glass and metal move forward,
Leaving behind only a driver’s contempt,
Continuing to prove;
All is not as it appears.

The little man smiles,
As tinted glass speeds away,
Leaving its reflected background of barren trees and snowfall
As just another example of life resisting death.

Returning to the glow of trashcan fire,
Another night becomes warm
For these denizens of survival,
Lifting their shouts and laughter,
Like a celebratory rejection,
To echo through the city’s other madhouse of inmates,
The ones in highrise-disconnect,
Where delusions lurk in shadows
Far darker than those the flames of survival create.

And…

In spite of hunger and cold,
Tonight the little man will reflect on the shivering saplings
Accepting the floating ice of Nature’s cover,
And allow yet another Crayola sketch
To console his everyday challenge.

He reminds himself,
Masterpieces are what life perceives beneath the surface,
Beneath the headlamp’s halo,
Beneath a monocolored remembrance,
Evading the hooded reaper sneaking up on him,
Taunting his light’s fading batteries,
Yet failing to extinguish hope.