What would Renoir make of you
adrift among too many doctors
in your pontoon upon the Mon?
The impressionists would shatter
your smile into a million glazed
facets. Seurat would point out
the sights, the sunken parking lot,
streetlights neck deep in the
rippling swells, gathered gloomy
as mourners at the wake of day.
What do artists know about joy,
or doctors for that matter, or
poets? What do tourists know
about mill strikes, scabs, and
dying on the line? When you
feel the molten works overthrow
your breathing, then you
understand joy, then you
understand drifting from the banks,
your poor tortured hand trailing
a cool design across the surface.
This is your art. Quiet, kind