Fine Art

When I was 6 “Fine Art” meant;
Finger-painting every Tuesday with Ms. Neimus,
But I mostly got it on my smock.

It meant glitter
imbedded in my living room carpet,
With a spectrum of Crayola markers,
Scattered about.

It meant running home from school
With a roll-up poster board
Clenched within little hands,
“Mommy look what I made!”
And “Oh Ayla! I’m so proud of you,
But what exactly is it?”

I drew people without shoulders,
And lollipop trees.
The sun?
Always a yellow circle
With orange squiggly lines,
And a pair of dark sunglasses.

I mixed every color
of play dough together,
And stuck it in the couch cushions.

Although my creations
Were far from masterpieces,
They were “Fine Art” to me.