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Poem

The Artist
 


Once described as an intense artist
He now sits comfortably
Patiently being interviewed 
By a reporter
Half his age
He begins
When I was a younger
I would come home from school
To an empty apartment
To keep myself occupied 
Until my mother came home 
I would spend hours 
Drawing random sketches 
And imaginary shapes in a notebook
That I kept hidden behind a couch
My mind was full of images
I was young
I was vulnerable
It wasn’t until
I got much older
That I decided to study art.

Speaking softly, he continues
People respect art and imagination
But recognition for an artist has a life of its own 
An artist must push himself to do 
What he hasn’t done before
But art is complicated 
What often comes with it 
Is all extraneous stuff
Which you try to control 
Before it consumes you.

The interview
And the questions ended hours ago
Returning home
The artist gazes out his bedroom window
Outside 
The Greek Orthodox   
Dome of St. George 
Maintains a stoic vigil
Over the East Village
Facing upward
Toward the dusky sky
Light from an open window 
Highlights his forehead
Drifting down to his lips
Gradually disappearing
Near his open collar
Only to resurface
In the middle of his shirt
Hands, calloused and strong,
Are down by his side
The left touching his thigh
The right hand dangling in freedom
Deep lines furrow his face
Shadows under his eyes
Mark a life spent
Perfecting his craft.

In the silence
He takes a deep breathe
Grateful
That the Roman in his heart  
Always unwavering
Prideful and defiant
Never surrendered
A day of his life.

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