Portrait Painter

Weekend been here
Taking care of everything
Although it isn’t much
Tell the inventor of crayons
Many wallpapers they’ve improved
And tell the funeralparlor
I still feel ripped off
Sick of making deals
I’m slipping on dead leaves
It’s like he had two homes
And in this cabin
He kept what mattered most
Always open
But if anyone came too close
They’d pass through like a ghost
Never saw him
Sit still only in his boat
I was not welcomed there
So still, real still
As he was practicing
To finally give in
The cabinet’s emptied
Abandoned it will rot
I lock up and leave
The wooden rowboat
Half-sunken in the reeds
The wiping out proceeds
Tell that portrait painter
His eyes weren’t that color, no
Still I recognize the glow
Drawing
Shows a boy whose rocket leaves
Disappearing over trees