No chairs fly through the air tonight,
no linseed oil drips from a homemade brush, no argument ensues over process,
for Gauguin does not appear,
just Vincent, or a dead ringer for him, sitting alone, off the booze, buzzing on straight coffee and surrounded by photos of flowers and dogs, pretty
but dead without the Van Gogh dash of madness, burned ego and desire
to be the god of the least bud: Bloom! And then a young woman joins him,
runs a glance over his yellow denim jacket, his unkempt hair, dishwater blond, his cheek’s stubble shadow, in silhouette Vincent was always at his best.
She’s as beautiful as a buxom sonnet,
as a sunflower or olive tree tattoo.
After an hour together he wants to do her, but she leaves alone, leaves him to spend
the rest of the evening in his room, not the first sting he’s pried out of his skin by distracting himself with color,
or stars, or nights, or wild imperious air.