the artist in his garret

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?