Someone
got into the special paints this morning.
(The ones kept on top of the fridge, behind the cereal and last week’s mail)
Stood on tippy-toes and
stretched her hand
up up up
til
she was impossibly tall.
As guilty fingers touched eternity – teetered, overbalanced –
light splattered
across the kitchen floor.
Everyone knows who did it;
The Creator’s fingertips are still stained
gold.
On Afternoons and Coffeespoons 