the painter next door

van gogh
moves in next
door to you
one day.
he's very moody,
his ear is
bandaged and
there is dried
blood
on his cheek.
you say hello,
but he ignores
you.
you see him
carrying in
his paints
and brushes
into the house,
easels, worn
and splattered,
the small
wooden chair
he sits on
when he paints.
as he carries
in his cat
he stops to take
notice
of your yard,
shaking his
head with dismay.
you try to break
the ice by saying
hey, i guess
i should grow
some lillies
or something,
which makes him
curse and touch
his wounded ear.
but you don't give
up and point
at your chin where
you cut your
chin shaving
this morning after
having a fight
with your girlfriend.
women, you say,
what are you gonna
do?
this makes him
spit and go inside,
slamming the door.