A bravest tale at four,
My legend was all doodles upon the door
Of an old hinge-howling, whir-humming refrigerator.
My sword, a stub of crayon;
My shield, more paper in mom’s cherry desk drawer;
My heart, the lone creator
Of glorious worlds fading even as they were drawn—
“Sketch them back!” my boy of youth yells from yore:
Worlds at whim, not at war.