All our voices flutter
like weary echoes
lost in subway haze.
Owned by the motion, the blur;
The obscenities made into artwork
by speed, spray paint, and passive observation.
This is the underground of our nation’s capitol,
and I am only twelve years old—
exhausted by museum passages,
democratic mysteries, and the hallow chrysalis
of my teenage years waiting on pushpins before me.
I cannot remember which girl I had a crush on just then,
or I still cannot bring myself to reveal her identity,
but I remember hoping to come home to her soon—
so I might win her over on a wet grassy soccer field
and hold her hand;
A sweet afternoon.
This, of course, never passed.
But more poignant than that,
was staring at the walls of the Smithsonian Portrait Gallery
and telling myself that someday,
one made by my hand would hang here.
This has not happened either and probably never will,
but I still hold hope that my hand will create beauty,
whether on canvas—
or just by holding another’s.