He noticed me and picked up a brush;
he is his canvas.
He was missing a few stripes
and wanted to fill them in.
Black streaks fly across the painting;
the strokes looked almost skin like.
He's not just orange.
Two colors in a perfect blend.
I glanced away from my art;
I wanted to admire his for as long as possible.
He seemed proud of his work,
leaving his brush behind with me.