The Artist

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.