I use to paint, nothing more than a hobby
a brush stroke to free a painful afternoon
like letting a bird free from her cage
and we sang the same song.
A re-centering tool- it’s what a friend called it
can call her Liz – and Liz added
lets take it a step further lets paint outside.
Got in a jeep with the doors missing
shoes at home brushes in the car
wind in our hair hand on her thigh
hers in my hair-
we came to a cliff overlooking truly nothing
and she said-
fill it with paint
and the Sherlock in me was ready with the bucket of Salt Blue ready to fill every corner but no
the Watson approach- a pond once existed here-
a family of ducks all beautiful and kids brought them lunch and watched them like a free zoo
couples posed on rocks, these aren’t your every day rocks no these are fucking boulders
the kind Indiana Jones sees in his nightmares.
a pair of green trees with rings visible on the outside
older couples would come to carve knots on them – another ring for a happy ring
that passes through
and during the night sky- shitty teenagers would come and have a bonfire
cheap beer and loud music, they would count all the stars
and catalogue them like files a through z and
they danced until the ducks came the next morning.
It was their shift.
and we packed our paint- we left two brushes behind
for the next chapter.
