I can't draw a decent stick man
he mocks me
my not well-drawn man
wiggles his non-existent hips at me
taunts me
but he's only made of sticks.

I point this out to him
he reminds me
that I created him.
I'm his trickster god
"You made me this way"
he wails
shakes his thin arms at me
weeping a puddle of tears
that collect at his feet.

To make him feel better
I give him a boxy car
with not quite round wheels
bumping along a road.
With a slash of my pen
I give him birds above
half of a yellow sun
peeking from one corner of the page
a small house
with smoke curling from a chimney.

He's happy now
so easily pleased.
If he gets down again
I will destroy him and his world.
I like being a trickster god.
Having some control over something
even if it is a simple stick man
and his simple stick existence.

"I love your work," he says to me.
"I love you."
He dances a happy jig
from one side of the page
to the other.
It doesn't matter to him that he's crudely drawn.
He is something.