the artist at work

even on a rainy
holiday
the artist is in her
studio, above the insurance
company. jackson browne
plays loudly on
her radio and she sings
along, doesn't hear
you coming down
the hall. she's
gluing together
sea glass onto popsicle
sticks, little legs
and eyes, and strands
of thread to be hair.
beach people,
she says. and you nod
and notice
the price of thirty seven
dollars and wonder
how she arrived
at such a cost. i'm almost
done with this one,
she says, gluing
the feet to another piece
of glass, blue, like an
ocean has never been.
this one is twenty three
she says. after all
it's a holiday. i call it
lost tourists.