what does a painter do
when not weeping a palette of oils
down whiskered chin
and that man in the cart, broken in
by circumstance,
with the white brush
painting lines all day and into the loud night
so women in bright floral
are able to turn their vehicle
left
or right or drive straight
on into the café and serve latté coffees
with cake and a swish of décor
designed in a room with a large glass window overlooking a bluestone
laneway
where suited and scarved people stumble as they hustle
just like words
and rhythm and
where to break from happenstance, where to leave one’s hat when dancing
and when to stop and watch feet
boarding trains to anywhere;
figures receding into memories and possibilities such as
when I put the pen down once but now I stop
touching the keys and hope the mind and heart
fall at ease.
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