Living with the Artist

What does it matter
that he spreads his wealth across the floor
and you’re as fastidious
as a mother sparrow.
Give him his weakness
where they make a strength
while you go about your dainty business
around him.

Slop and slap
are how the pretty colors are made
like brush and vacuum
are the sofa’s shortest route
to art form.

Allow him his canvas,
that studio shock
where unexpected light
meets unimagined hue,
and what’s left over
sets fire to the walls with paint.

He’s upstairs,
going mess to mess,
splatter to splatter,
with your portrait.
Meanwhile, you have
made a room,
neat and clean and faceless.

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