She threw a box of crayons at me
I didn’t even bother to duck
It wasn’t a real box of crayons
It was just the words “box of crayons”
The sequence of consonants and vowels
Uttered or typed or just imagined
They weren’t real little wax pencils
They weren’t real colors had no weight
You couldn’t smell them or draw with them
When they missed me smashed against the wall
The box didn’t split open and spill
Colored crayons all over the floor
An interesting pattern of sticks
She threw a box of crayons at me
I didn’t even bother to duck
Because an interesting pattern
Of pretty colored sticks on the floor
Would have been something real something true
Something not a lie something like art
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