I awake to a green giraffe with black spots,
standing against a royal blue sky.
A little further down the wall
a pink pig is smiling at a coke can,
also, on a royal blue background.

These are surrounded by various,
Jackson Pollack color explosions,
crafted by my two granddaughters.
This is their wall, and it looks at me,
every night, as I attempt to sleep.

We talk about what grounds us,
what keeps us in touch with reality,
keeps both feet balanced on the floor,
responding properly to
protocol and gravity.

This is the first day of the rest of your life.
Every day you wake up is another win,
a miracle, a leg up on mortality,
extra innings.
Time left on the parking meter.

The space I take up,
the air I displace,
is like a drop of water in the earth’s oceans.
I am meaningless and will every day,
every moment, become more so.

In the meantime, I have a giraffe,
with a black and white eye
and a smiling pink pig,
that every morning
laugh with me about it,

and even though they face in
different directions in their world,
they have me,
and that royal blue background
in common.

Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Wild Violet, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Ariel Chart, Cape Magazine, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Chiron Review, Valiant Scribe, Borderless Crossings, The Main Street Rag, Dear Booze, and several dozen other journals.