the artist, his heart

why
there's no choice
said the American painter
born in 1943
to the blond woman in a blue skirt and sunglasses
it must be relaxing
being an artist
she offered
something in the middle distance caught his eye
not really
you imagine something pastoral
idyllic
unrelated to hurried monotony
screaming babies
city trains
mortgages
yes and no
my home
a draughty barn
striped mattress in the corner
a cat
jars of turpentine open
sheets of linen for curtains
high windows
shaped canvases from 1978
Hawaiian median wedged like a headboard
unsold
months
a year sometimes
swallowed up by darkness
unable to paint or print or shape a single canvas
sitting
waiting
the demon's belly
without light
air
hope
waiting waiting waiting
for every single thing to stop

then black becomes grey
becomes light
by miracle or curse
the heavy beast fades
as he has
always
even when I am certain he won't
I work again
there is no pace
just work and more work
this Katahdin canvas needs to sell
my god
the angioplasty bill
the studio
the red van
the cat
the cat
he has it all figured out....