You, a well-worn road of stomped hope
look up from the path and see that you carry a mural
on your eggshell self.
Boys will not seek your type of art.
They do not know what to look for.
Know that there is an artist with a brush to match your strokes,
who will unwrap each swaddled pain with gentle hands.
He, too, waits.
Hope: Keep it close. Make it the blanket you fall asleep under each night.
These years of crayon boys are a pencil outline
He will take those lines and draw up a home around you
There are no stick-figure promises here.
His cement will be more than enough.
Plunge your hands and mark the day.