the roller’s creamy caress of the wall,  
a few brush strokes in close corners, trim
requiring the greatest finesse of all    
at that art I am past master,
but hell, it’s mostly plaster    

I would love to create a corner café  
its neon lights a beacon in the night  
for those in insomnia’s grip  

or fashion a woman sipping coffee
from her favorite cup, in her favorite easy chair
finicky feline purring in her lap--and I don’t
even like cats

Hopper, Munch, a thousand more
whose canvasses speak a million words
I would trade all but one of the years I have left  
to make palettes scream, or sit silent
in their beautiful despair  

instead I’ll crank out “Times New Roman” art  
black and white characters without sense or scent,  
sensing the reader will yearn for less, the oil’s
shallow relief so much more fecund
than my “deep” words  

‘tis not to be, for me  
I will have to settle for Sherwin Williams, Benjamin Moore
and try my best to not spill too much on the floor