McCormick refused to take his bath.
He ran out naked, to see the stars.
One thing led to another, and he
decided to lie down, just stay
outside for a while. His father
brought him sandwiches. His mother
brought him a pillow. His little brother
brought him his favorite rocket ship.
No one cared that McCormick was dirty.
No one cared that McCormick was stinky.
They knew he’d come back inside …
And he did come back–several days later.
He thanked his father for the sandwiches,
his mother for the pillow (he forgot to
thank his brother for the rocket ship).
He told everyone what he saw–how the
moon licked his bedroom window at night,
how the possum ran along the back fence,
how the sun scrubbed the stars from the sky.
He showed them, too (and this was the
most surprising part) what had happened
as he lay there for all those days and nights.
Would you believe it? McCormick bloomed!
Felt like sketching him, for some reason. If I were to do it again, I’d have him holding something over his bits and pieces. As it is, I just drew extra dirt. Also, please tell me Shel Silverstein didn’t write a poem about a dirty kid who blooms, and I’ve subconsciously replicated it here. (This is for NaPoWriMo, Day 22, by the way.)