Petite Picasso
ORIGINAL VERSION
Smudges of dirt,
Smudges of dirt,
green and brown,
custard and butter,
yoghurt spread in
sweeping strokes:
I think my baby sister
might be a painter.
Our sitting room table,
it’s a canvas to her –
where we see plates,
she sees the possibilities
of texture and colour,
her work is abstract,
it makes you laugh,
it makes you ponder.
She exhibits
her latest,
holding up objects
drenched in juice
or combo liquids
or stranger stuff.
Always, there follows
performance sounds;
a chuckle, a burp,
her very loud claps.
I might charge a fee
to enter our home,
to wander and wonder
at all the great work -
including that sludge
in vomit corner.
However, I’ll need
to convince my parents
not to fill the dishwasher.
“Mum and dad,” I’ll tell them,
“I think my baby sister
might be a painter.”