A Little Painter in a Little Town

I am not a genius I am not clairvoyant though I always know who is calling before the phone rings A sketchy talent What am I Terminally curious And lacking in certain graces Unsettled The canvas is still the battle ground And my best ally The cartilaginous tissue Connecting these tired old bones Keeping them standing I mourn my cat She taught me everything I know And I taught her How to be a dog How to beg for her supper It was our joke A little painter In a little town No hail Mary for me No last minute reprieve An aggregate of longing and loss Bound to pathos Embracing the worm that surrounds me tightly With its silken aspirations Forsworn each daily light And crawled into each welcoming night I have hidden in the corner Of the closet—waiting for The guests to leave I force my cramping toes to unbend this in itself is courageous If I loosen my muscles Uncurl my vertebral colonnade If I lie flat while waiting For the magic elixir To deliver its promise Arrogance flew away with youth and health Here in the garden by the bay On the day I returned I found I could no longer swim I have a studio packed with remembrance on boards and canvases And plaster—like small walls Small walls That make a room— Rooms that make houses Pathways and avenues That keep them fluid on the good days And stagnant On those others What is left To cry about Provincetown, 2018