Wild Thing

It began in the morning,
sitting on the window sill
your wiry legs curled over
and your knees tucked
gently beneath your chin.

Sun and sea soaked air
streams in through the open window
and your hair
a dull walnut brown
brushing against your imperfect lips
and the salt stained glass.

You tap out a rhythm with your pencil,
an impatient beating against the peeling paint.
Sometimes I wonder if you're even conscious
of half the things you do
or if it all just seems natural
like shielding your eyes against the sun

You're the type to find a spider
trapped in the bath tub
and want to save it,
a bee and not be afraid.
And I wonder if it's because
you yourself are a bit of a wild thing.

And I think I wouldn't mind watching you
(under the pretense of the washing dishes)
just to figure out how your mind works