So Now

I get paid

to crumple up

children’s drawings

and throw them in the garbage.

Covered in ketchup,

drizzled with balsamic,

crayon hand tracings

and tic-tac-toe.

My favorite restaurants

when I was three feet tall

were any with paper laid over the tablecloths.

I always pictured

the waiter,

after we left,

taking the greasy salty paper off the table, and

upon spotting

my doodles,

he’d spend

a few minutes

lost in my world,

desperate to understand

who the characters were,

what they were doing,

what it all meant.

And as he began to understand,

he’d tell the other waiters

to come gather round:

“Look what this little kid drew!”

And before they threw the messy silverware in the bus tub,

before they went to collect the tips from their tables,

before they bothered to refill someone’s iced tea,

they’d enjoy

a few,

pleased

smiling moments,

glad to be graced

by

my

mind.

So now

before I set all the half-empty glasses on the tray,

before the silverware’s stocked up on the stack of dishes,

and before I crumple up everything paper and throw it all away,

I picture framing

whatever silly crayon patterns there are.

Take the two little wobbly hands

in my hands, turn the paper

into stained glass,

and replace

my aging skin

with these

windows.