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box of crayons
Illustration by Ella Jensen

Lockdown, day waytoomany

Bob Hicok

Her adult coloring book is mostly mandalas,

she has three boxes of Crayolas,

she colors for the motions, the dwelling on orange

or blue. I watch her color

for the mediative quality of loving her face

when she doesn’t know I’m looking,

when she’s not worried we’re all going to die

from a virus.


People say we’re all going to die

but a good scientist remains skeptical

until all the facts are in: not everyone looks good

in culottes, rainbows like to be alone, I like

to be alone, I am not a rainbow,

I did not have to drag a piano

around the bases in grade school, leading to scores

like 1/2 to 1/4, but what if baseball

had more Chopin and Satie in it, wouldn’t that

be nice?


I’m not sure anyone looks good in culottes.

I’m pretty sure we all want to believe in god.

I suspect my wife will start coloring in trees,

my face, the sky to keep busy

and not a single rabbit will mind.

I know for a fact

that I don’t care if the rest of you die

but she has to live forever.

Sixty four times three

is one hundred and ninety two crayons.

Have you ever had one hundred and ninety two crayons

at the same time?

My wife, the crayon baron.

The Rockefeller of barely hanging on.