I sketch with a sight line, colour in with a trigger, boom.

Sometimes I go outside the lines.

Blue sky, bright day, children licking big lollipops somewhere, peace in the world or here on my tiny perch on top the Daily News.

I watch the cheap motel, see-through stairs and the ice machine, rumble of its motor deafening to rooms 2A through E, I wait in greenery, the newspaper under my butt, dusk approaches, cocktail time, spy on G.

He’s someone if they put him far enough away from the noise.

Problem is, I’m always early. Daddy used to say people who show up on time are people who’re destined to follow for the rest of their lives.

It was all part of Daddy’s strategy, employed to maximize my potential.

Lose the accent, boy.

Never could talk like a northerner. Maybe, if I don’t lead, I just went and started my own parade.

I get them in sight down around the soda machine, looks like he’s thinking maybe a Crush to wet the whistle on this steamy April day.

The going outside the lines, Daddy never liked. Whereas seems to me not going outside the lines is more following than not.

They walk slow up the stairs. They don’t even know I’m here.

They will.

When the sunshiny blue sky gets dotted with bits of red, primary colours being the paints of my palette.

Boom.