Pile into Art

I know that when he is twenty
I will wish
That I had taken some sort of spray
Or varnish
To turn this pile into art

It is there
On the floor
Glowing in the sun on the wooden floor
Just so
Leaving an impression of him in this room like a footprint at the beach
One leg perfectly telescoped
So you can't even see the little penguins playing
The other leg is inside out
Trailing in his wake
Pointing the direction that he ran off
He went that way
To breakfast
To school
To life

But today

As I bend to pick them up
I sigh
Today it is not art
Today it is a mess

Sigh