Page 43 - WTP Vol. VIII #4

expecting that my long legs will grace the platform, that my body will be folded on the drapery’s folds.
Fingers a fluid sweep as crowds murmur in my brain, on my way out the door I purloin their supplies—watercolors, charcoal, pastels. Years breathe by, my dimples disappear. My paintings
are presented. I cartoon my subjects, gesso my love for them, wipe the turp rag on my need for them —braggarts and don juans who can’t sit still.
Passenger trains are shorter now. Crews walk freely through the cars, rendering an inspection lookout obsolete. The caboose has seen its day. I ready a frame
for the fish that bites the apostle back when the loaves
split twelve thousand ways into crumbs on the water where a lone man walks. Rainbow oil rings surface on Galilee.
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