AN ARTIST'S LIFE

I held my brush posed to dab in
an impressionised peacock
with a full compliment of colors
that will make me immortal
to the eyes of pretentious
Gurus in dimly lit galleries
with blue-blooded connoisseurs
ready with a pen and check
to acquire a new investment.
Soon the brushworkand the spirit dries
and I return to the back street
studio where the hue of the gouache
in my palette hardly changed
still glowed with my spites
and my fancies and my delusions of fame
Soon they will fade
and I’ll realize that the hillocks
behind the house is myMontmartre
and my bare table
is a worthy still life
and my dreams are avant-garde
moderns waiting to be understood
and I’ll enjoy my blessed Renaissance
every time I buy a lottery ticket