A tri-fold brown paper towel masterpiece,
the artist a boy, could not sit still in church;
thanking me, Father put it in his pocket, but
I knew he would throw it away.
Father then died thirty years later and that
tri-fold art was found in his dresser.
As a father now, I have collected my fair share
of scrap-paper Renoir’s, Van-Gogh’s, and even a Dali;
These master’s do not compare to the art of little girls
on scrap pieces of paper, and as they have grown,
their father will even accept a Jackson Pollock.