Painting

I'll paint myself up and down until I'm exactly the way you want me.

I could be a pretty circle sun with rays jetting out like spider legs 

or a flying bird whose wings are two humps created from one simple stroke of the brush. 

You could push me up against your refrigerator door 

and pin me down with alphabet magnets.

I could be an awkward self-portrait the teacher forces upon every confused 6th grader. 

I'll have an oval head with eyeballs drawn in the direct middle as was insisted, 

even though everyone knows that eyes aren't really in the middle of a head. 

A portrait of an alien-looking self.

I could pointillate with tiny pricks and form a less formal version of Seurat's la Grande Jatte umbrella lady.

A blurry disaster up close passing as beautiful from far away. 

Still, the people would walk by in a heartbeat to look at water lilies

and take pictures with no flash.

I could use my blues and be a starry night, 

swirling around in the darkness though claiming to possess light. 

Calendars would feature my swirls 

and college students would pin me up on their walls after purchasing me at a campus-wide poster sale.

I could be another lesser known type of debateable artwork. 

Maybe you'd want me to be the bare hexagon-shaped string on the wall, modern and blunt. 

Or the pink vinyll plank that stands tall in direct contrast against the stark white wall. 

Or the shards of glass spewed violently across the wood floor, 

helpless and in need of a good cleaning up,

but until you speak the words I am still a blank canvas.