A Time of Change

I woke up just now to the chatter of early-morning birds and watched the pale predawn light billow out white and gentle upon the world and I thought: It is spring, and I am starting anew.

Caricature

I was never born. A vagrant artist drew me into existence one afternoon while sitting in a booth in a narrow back alley where drifters peddle knickknacks that no one needs. He gave me: a toothy too-wide smile; exaggerated ears. Now, huge-headed but skinny-necked, I bobble my way through my cartoon life. Plea: If I was never designed to manifest proportionality and realism, then someday may I at least be syndicated?