The Portrait

It was poor art, the drawing of a child
A figure of a man
Feet spread apart, his arms open wide
Tears rolling down his face

Not a stick man but still just flat
No hair to speak of
Thick neck and small empty eyes
A line for a mouth. Pointing down.

Would I be weeping if it were me?
Left flat in the notebook
No way of sharing my distress. All alone.
Forgotten by the one who put me there

And what of that artist, with juvenile skills?
His own work imperfect
Did he leave to be with the Masters?
Surrounding himself with perfection.

Does he know how much he is like his man?
Mute to the world
Like a child with no language to share
It was he who drew the tears.