One day they’ll ask me
(in my dreams)
Where my art is found
My resume for my right hemisphere
My creative licence card

And I’ll say it’s found
obviously
In these poems I write at night
Restless hands and wordless ranting

It’s in the little yarn projects
I’ve picked up and put down
across a year
And my crazed grin when I have to frog three ****** rows

It’s all the handmade cards I crafted for mother’s day
for every year in my life
Because she once dreamed of being an architect
And smiles when resigned to helping to do my art homework

It’s the dried flowers
from manic fascination and collection
Pressed under a stack of books
Sort of forgotten when I tell myself
I’ll paste them on paper tomorrow

Not a bone in my body is professional
Not a bit of me says Van Gogh
But only I see my museum
And only I critique my art
So at least my abstract portrait of craft
Won’t have a missing ear in it