Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Laclede the Artist
He is at home
in this match-book town
warmed by the nuclear power
brewed out west
(though he never calls on it
(the gas neither.
When he runs out of ice
(commonly, I’m afraid
he just walks down to the river
and hacks off a chunk or two.
‘Sea ice!’ he boasts to guests,
‘Never have a better drink in all your life.’
Sea-hattans he calls them,
and sings a song to the tune of “Sea Captains.”
His sideburns red and wispy
His boat a studio afloat
His paintings acts of revenge.
As he traces lines on the canvas
making valleys of paint
and rivers thick with barges
he imagines
a searchlight in his hands
And through
clouds clouds fog
the river a mile wide
he believes he has lost his painting
only to discover land.