The Artist That Never Was

My father is an artist
though his work
will never hang in a gallery.

It is in him
none the less.

His eye,
his heart,
his hand
holding a pencil gently poised
over the paper.

He set this aside
a working man
putting dinner on the table
a roof over our heads
sending his children off to college.

Did he ever dream
of being an artist?

I never thought to ask him
but you can see it in his hand,
the grace of the lines
as he sits at the table
drawing trucks and choo-choo trains
with his grandson.

An artist that never was.

© Michele Markley 2009