in bed at the Motel Six
across from
the airport, pondering your life
and where
it went
of the rails,
you stare at the bad art
on the walls.
abstracts
and cowboys, hills
and desert landscapes,
an ocean
that looks like it was painted
by a child five
years old.
it's then that you realize
that maybe
art is your true
skill.
you too can paint pictures
like this.
maybe tomorrow you'll
begin,
you'll go down to the local
art supply
store,
buy paints and canvas,
brushes,
and easel and a beret
and start life over again.
you call your soon to be ex-wife
collect,
to tell her the good news,
disregarding
the sound the phone makes
when she laughs
and hangs up.
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