Joe drew me a picture.
He left it on my dresser.
“Mommy, I think
The delivery boy
Left you something.
You should go into your room.”
And so I went.
He fell facedown on my bed
In a paroxysm of embarrassed delight:
Eager for me to see what he had done,
But hesitant, too, the way, perhaps
All artists are when faced with an audience.
Vulnerability starts young.
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