'Draw no more,' sage advice to my old self.

When I was seven my teacher sat

me next to Sean McCann

and as she squatted beside my desk

she pointed at Sean’s drawing

and ask me to draw “just like that,”

but Miss missed the effect her administration

had upon me. I laid down my pens

and never drew again (or if I did it was drawing

or be kept in) the fun sucked out of it the same

as when I ran in races and came last, hateful

of each and every plodded step,

but alone in the streets when no one was watching

I would run and run and laugh and think

with the wind in the right orientation

I might all but disappear.

Truth is, before Miss misinterpreted me,

I excelled at drawing for release,

like a wild beast, I scratched and swatted

and spat and hissed and with the pens as claws

went everywhichway across the page and the desk –

the way I drew reminded me of life

and the way I felt when my dad came home

drunk or when Peter McAuliffe

sought me out just so he could paint

my face with his fists

but Miss did not like the explosion.

She wanted everything smooth and calm

all the lines heading in the same direction

like serene dolphin

when I preferred the shark’s attack.