My Poem

“Untitled”

It’s where the paintings live, she said.
A cool escape on Sunday afternoons —
Escape to dreams of “I could do that,”
Escape from dreaded housework,
Chores,
Reality.
Farewell, she said, formal building with gold eagle
Guarding the way
On the watch lest some young upstart
Dared to say the live-in paintings were not art.
He could do better, he said…
What did those stripes mean anyway?
They weren’t even pretty colors —
Dull old brown —
Looked like tree trunks lying down for the night.
And what were those dots and swirls of paint?
“Untitled” was the title —
Waves perhaps, but the swirls were red,
And waves are ALWAYS blue.
Twenty years ago he wouldn’t have asked —
He would have enjoyed with a three-year-old’s joy —
But since then, he had learned a lot from his mother.

Poem copyright ©1977–2022 by Marcia Hart