An evening spent drawing fake homes for the affluent,
each one on a three inch wide and tall piece of card,
the bottom folded down to allow for convenient application of glue;
one of them my grandparents' house in Morris, Manitoba;
another the one belonging to the Brady Bunch on Glory Circle.
At the time it seemed a task of both import and relevance,
one to be remembered through the ages as an ambitious undertaking
and to be exhibited in large museums where Warhol used to scoff
and van Gogh would never have stood asking, "What was that?"
or tried to understand rock music.
I'm alright with knowing that such wasn't the case
and that the closest I'll come will be another boy
with proportions strange and tiresome saying things like,
"The beams are crooked" or, "Who would build a house like this"
joking against the facts, though the facts are jokes themselves.
But my God, how tiring.