Bob Bradshaw

Vincent

Theo,
the sunflowers hang their yellow heads
like tired dogs.
The skies are muddy
and the drawbridge aches
for a yellow cart to pass over.
The earth is miserable.
I hear from Gauguin
that his health
is sure to collapse.
He may have to reduce
the price of his paintings.
As for my prices...well, you know
that story as well
as you know the inside
of an empty
purse.

I long for the pinkness
of peach trees
to awaken my senses.
For now I tie my easel down
in this wind and hold onto it
with my left hand.
The spray of rain
leaves the world varnished.
Even brothels
cannot offer the beauty
a rain brings to a field.
No clearing in a jungle
can compare
to clouds opening,
and sunlight spilling through them
the way that honey spills
from a pitcher.
The winds could shred
a man like thistle.
But what has a man
to hold onto
if not his
work?

An earlier version of "Vincent" was published at DMQ Review in 2005.