The Artist
Leonardo, Monet and Picasso
dazzle in their gilded frames -
even van Gogh with bandaged ear
wears coat and hat,
but he walks in with rumpled shirt
and Van de Graaff hair,
salted down to broad shoulders.
He has invited us to celebrate
the opening of the show,
trusting the jury and judge in us
will give way
to a different point of view.
There is no judgment of us
who, for want of happiness,
fill life with work
and miles on the road.
His art is an invitation
to fill our work with life,
to seize the view
to which it points.
Beneath that cloak of Sisyphus
he has caught a glimpse, a flash
of god like brilliance.
The urge to create lurks,
locked, looking for a handle,
a door, a way out. He is grateful
for a window in.
He talks about the baseball legend
whose life he framed in a moment,
now displayed under lights
and penetrating eyes.
Another photo of his
hangs hidden in a hall,
but he neglects to herald
the moment there, though no less
wondrous in expression
of that elusive passion
burning in us all
and waiting
to be captured
on a wall.
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