Some say the world's a cave of wearies,
lost today, and we're left to watch the shadows play
on cave walls.
And what of those drawings of buffalo,
and the men who once carved their stories
in chalk, and how their language probably never
included the word "honorable," or "heroic,"
or "tidy."

I "tidy" the sink, and I want to draw buffaloes
with chalk.
I scrub lemon scent freshness into everything,
but maybe the world's smell, six-thousand years ago
felt somehow more "heroic."
More "honorable."
because instead of drawing buffaloes,
i could draw myself in stick-figure black, pressing sponge to porcelain,
and a faucet running in the background. Niagara, or that
really tall one called heaven's leap, or angel falls, that
thin one
that plummets for miles
before
splashing into itself.

Or I could pretend
and just draw a buffalo.