The great Artist is at work.
Around his house, his children move
in whispers, while his wife
lays down a dinner tray,
tells that it’s there
with two soft raps – no more – tapped on his study door.
The great Artist begs his work
to yield to him, to offer up
its answers; while outside,
his children move away
(as children always will, towards play)
and food that took an hour to cook, or more
turns cold there on the floor.
More poems.
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