Picasso stood at the window looking at the shape of things to come.
A rage was building is his belly. Sharp remarks he made to his lover
Were eating at his gut.  She was useless to him now.
Stained by tears, she could not see him now. She would never understand him.
He was doing her a favor by leaving her.
Tomorrow her mother would come to collect her.
It would be a good day to visit his printer, he thought.
One woman crying and another screaming at him would be too much.

Late that night he came to her door and stood outside listening.
He felt like walking in and wordlessly taking her.
He knew she would submit.  But then, the act would make him soft.
Could he have her and still throw her out the next day?
He stood listening and thought.
Picasso, yes.  Picasso could do this and would do this.

But the moment passed.
The image of a bull folded on the arena floor bleeding out.
His face was that bull’s face.
In celebration of this tragedy he would stay
Locked away in his studio painting his sins
Without remorse and in willful defiance.

The next day the mother came.
He met her in the driveway.  He kissed her
And pressed her to him.
“You sent me a child” he said.
“Take her away and then return alone.”