Sometimes the canvas is a notepad. Sometimes the canvas is a driveway covered in chalk. Sometimes the canvas is scribbles on the edges of the newspaper.
The canvas today is whatever vacant space he can find on the stack of ordering forms that are sitting on his desk, and even though he’s been working through them at a steady pace, or so he thinks, the stack feels never-ending, but his boss just keeps knocking on the office door — another stack in hand — placing, building, the stack of paper is reaching for the sky — the sky will get a papercut if he doesn’t work faster.
To calm his nerves he draws in the corners, on the edges, at the bottom. Little sketches. A swordsman picking roses. A cowboy enjoying a morning cup of coffee. An astronaut giving a book reading on mars.
The stack reaches its end and he looks to the trash. The worlds he created look back at him from underneath an empty coffee cup, the few brown remaining droplets leaking into and refilling the cowboy’s mug.
The cowboy tips his hat.