Modern Art

I watched my granddaughter coloring

the other day in the car as we drove somewhere,

coloring to pass away the miles and the minutes.

Her fingers tapped the screen of her phone,

a random rapid tapping, and the close-up segment

of a picture, zoomed in, turned to color,

one shape at a time, like magic, no crayons

to melt and mar my seats in the summer heat!

Fascinated, I tried it, too, downloaded

on my own phone and in the privacy of my home,

but it lacked something, something was missing,

even the stress relief she claimed it helped;

mere frustration for me, touching a spot

and a rich hue coming from my finger tip, no decisions

to make about color and texture, proper shading,

that sense of art and reality melding,

no waxy smoothness or rolled paper rough

against my fingers, fat and arthritic, no more

digging through an old cigar box of broken nubs

thrown together, shaken about and rattling

looking for sepia, burnt umber, orange-red, and

red-orange, paperless and unmarked,

the right shade for a rose lightly brushed

with a contrasting color and outlined

in black, and a shadow from a sun situated outside

the picture’s frame, or a bright yellow in the corner

filtering down onto the page, but no page, now,

no coloring books with half-finished pictures,

scribbles and careful colors inside the lines,

no Mickey Mouse and Barbie Dolls, puppies and kittens,

just this tiny screen, shared with no one,

gone with the push of a button, never to be hung

on the refrigerator door dedicated to grandchildren’s

art, artwork shared in the years ahead, or reaching

for a midnight snack and remembering her,

watching her grow in art and form, herself,

a piece of art, a princess in a coloring book,

half finished, taking shape and brightly colored.