poem: Thomas Fucaloro

Thomas and the Purple Crayon

So there was no moon in the sky
so he drew one and then a house
with some windows, a door, a kitchen, a table
and then a mother and a father.

The first time I told my parents I have a cocaine problem
they looked at me odd
like I just told them I want to run for the presidency
or
be an Olympic javelin thrower
or
become a poet.

Thomas draws disappointment on their faces.

Something is about to change in Thomas and I don’t even know it.

I hope the need for coke becomes the need for my parents.

The drawing of the house still, stands.
This time Thomas adds shutters to the windows
so nobody can see in or out.

Thomas erases forks, knives and other sharp objects for
protection. He draws a hot air balloon in case he needs to escape.

The 4th time I told my parents I have a cocaine problem
they looked at me sorrowingly, morningly set sunset vibrant
just for a second, gone. Ultimatums fly like thrown high heeled shoes
at my head, rightfully so. Thomas draws band aids. Don’t worry
he draws a hot air balloon in case he needs to escape.

I’ve started writing poems where my father is the course through my veins
my mother a circulatory system of never ending branches reaching,
pulsating through arteries bloody blossoming through those little veins
in your eyeballs holding a stare of hope. Thomas draws his eyelids shut

The 7th time I told my parents I have a cocaine problem
they looked expected. Expected like the sun.
Expected like one day I would have to put my crayons away.
Expected like no hot water in my building.

Thomas draws mountains of regret
throws them off the George Washington Bridge
if only to draw anew.

I’ve started drawing these poems
where Thomas is writing about telling my parents about the first few times
I had a cocaine problem but the keep coming out like this poem.

Some people call me a drug poet.

My parents are taking the place of drugs in all my poems.

I think

this is a good thing.

I

draw

a smile.

THOMAS FUCALORO likes poems a lot. He has a book out called, Inheriting Craziness Is Like A Soft Halo Of Light, Everyone’s Got One But No One Can See It. He hopes his poems one turn into sunglasses so he can finally see the light.