Wine Glass

Post Impressed

Renoir painted girls at pianos, Degas sneaking into
The scene.  His son Jean, looking like a pink bowed
Princess, tinkering with a tiny toy cow, or shotgun
slung over his shoulder.  Coco dressed as a clown in
Itchy white stockings while Renior’s paintbrush
Shook in anger and frustration.  “I will not paint a portrait. 
I will paint picture with you in it.”  He admired
Big boned women, curved like red wine
Glasses.  I imagine him dreaming of the lines 
Of the large bathers, while residing in
The little hills of France.

“It is the painter who makes the model,”
He exclaimed as he rounded their bottoms
Laying them on soft grasses near swimming holes,
Setting fish next to oranges and tambourines against
Castanets.  Painting without purpose, he molded Matisse,
Bonnard, Maillil, Picasso.  As he grew into his wrinkled
Arthritic body, he chose painting over walking, commenting,
“The pain will pass, but the beauty remains.”

Today, Matisse gives me knowing glances, 
As he booms in bold black outlines and Renior 
speaks in hushed hues,  “My inclination is to tell you, 
You are a bad painter, 
But I suppose you are a painter, after all.”