the artist in his garret
the artist in his garret studio
flooded with the light parisienne
falling across the chaise longue.
garbled table coppiced with brushes,
leadened with swirled tubes of paint;
empty wine bottles, stale bread,
and canvasses stacked
but every which and where;
and there i would love to rest,
to write the whole day through;
it is where my mind is now
as i sit here next to you;
for it is free to roam,
to find itself a home,
where the cookie jar of great poems
sits aside, to be plundered
by the poet who’s days are numbered.
Who will bequest this loft to me?