That poor little painter fellow
was a strange man.

Vincent was his name.

He never asked for mine.
He called me darling.
He called all the nurses darling.
He called the walls darling, too.

He came to us in the springtime.
He didn’t talk much,
but his paintings were quite odd.
They swirled like the world
on three glasses of wine.
They made me reach for my glasses,
search for a chair, and chug a cup of coffee.
When I looked at his work, I felt
too much like I used to feel with Charles.
When I had one too many,
and he walked me home.
We walked for three miles. I was
happy, but he left.

On Vincent’s last night, he sat
at the barred window in his room.
I came up to him, smiled, and said,
"Wow, what a starry night,"
and he just stared.

I don’t know if he was looking
at the light in the stars
or the black in the sky.