Your brushstrokes make me smile.
You have weaved fluorescent purple streaks
about my hair.
Standing tall on my head a hat –
crafted from wire; all shiny bright and prickly.
Porcupine springs to mind.
What was on yours – when you painted it?
At the sitting
You offered me a plastic cup of lemonade.
Fizz went up my nose
I sneezed, you laughed.
What was the meaning of all that.
It doesn’t look like me
you have captured me young
Salad days – party nights
excessively overly overconfident
in my pig headed way.
The painting was a birthday bequest
just me, my smile, the wire.
The rest of me, seemingly lacking of attire.
I stand back admiring its dignity.
Such a pity that it resembles
someone else –
Someone: Who could never be me…