The Word Painter sat back with his coffee
In the battered old burgundy colored armchair.
He wished he was instead sipping burgundy
In a coffee colored chair, but beggars cannot be choosers.

Being a word painter is just not as lucrative as it was in the past.
Yet, on the positive side of the ledger, no one was likely
To ask him to swim the Hellespont
and risk his life for Greek independence.

What, then, should he write today?
He thought of her that once had worn his ring
He thought of a girl, lovely, tan
With jet black tresses
and lively Latina  eyes.

Strange, he hadn’t thought of her in quite some time.
Well, he thought, after all, today is her birthday.
“Happy birthday  to my Dear Barbara Jeanne.

You taught me lessons of Love and loss
and left me with just the touch of a poet.