Nothing but static poured out the radio.
The forgotten corner provided shelter for the shoe.
Dusty windows blocked approaching light
as he grabbed for the box, his toolbox,
Behind his left ear, a pencil.

He lost it, he said, the pencil.
He forgot where it was and he switched off the radio
while ideas danced from inside the toolbox.
Made of cardboard, once home to a pair of shoes.
He called it that because he was an artist, painting
a masterpiece in the dull light.

An artist. That was what the light
told him. An artist with a pencil
nowhere to be found. Paint
smeared on hands, now on the radio.
Watching from the corner was the shoe.
The one that lost his accomplice to the toolbox.

Who knows what was in the toolbox;
A place that had never seen light.
The only thing to escape was the shoe,
stranded and forgotten like the pencil
which might be somewhere behind the radio,
while it sang to the painting.

It was lost, he said, the painting.
Stuck deep within the depths toolbox
Loudly told by the radio.
which wasn't his; Borrowed like the light.
Soon to be lost like the pencil,
and forgotten like the shoe.

Drifted far had the shoe,
incomplete and shattered like the painting.
seen only up high by the pencil.
Stuck somewhere in the toolbox,
as dusty windows blocked out traces of light
and static poured out of the radio.

Misplaced was the painting, much like the shoe.
Fingers on the radio, not the painting.
Stuck deep within the toolbox, hidden from light.