Time’s child called history is drawing maps for us
and the shapes of nations form
a black crayon in a chubby fist
tears through blank pages
sitting at a table in a nursery
with a box of crayons and some paper
it’s like he’s playing with us
erase empires and scribble kingdoms
that idiot kid ravages plains with his five-year-old shading and crumples mountains with his dragging hand that smears the crayon
he still needs a bib to eat
and his eyes are the moon and sun
and he sets boundaries and rations the light of his eyes
idiot kid, alone in his room, drools and won’t stop the saliva falling like a sticky rain
we are getting by slowly
industries, state lines, developments--
they only lengthen
and our patriot fathers from centuries ago
dreamed they’d complete