THE SKETCH ARTIST

Pandemonium, asylum like activity, burnt coffee
A human circus, bizarre events, everywhere,
I'm trying so damn hard, to wrap my mind around this
As I perch nervously, on a frozen, steel, scuffed chair

A chrome domed police sketch artist, charcoal in hand
Penning on his parched notebook, every word that I say,
His gruff voice asks me, to remember detail's of the face
Of the monster, that last eve, attempted to steal my life away

I carefully described the details of the attacker's stark profile
The chilly blue orbs, crooked nose, on the lip, an old scar,
The artist had to begin, over and over, to get it just right
He told me, it was his most accurate sketch of his career, by far

A Barney Fife like cop, his hat, half tilted on his small head
Pulls up a chair, turns it around, sat down, as if he owned the place,
My police report, in hand, he again makes me describe my attacker
Still all the while, the sketch artist, still attempting to create a face

Both men in blue gazed, perplexed at the drawing, then back at me
The blood drains from their faces, Barney Fife, scoops up the phone,
Immediately, a sea of black and blue vultures are on top of me
For as the sketch artist, showed me his results, the face created was
my own.
poetdontknowit