I am not a painter, I am a poet. <br /> Why? I think I would rather be <br /> a painter, but I am not. Well, <br /> <br /> for instance, Mike Goldberg <br /> is starting a painting. I dropp in. <br /> 'Sit down and have a drink' he <br /> says. I drink; we drink. I look <br /> up. 'You have sardines in it.' <br /> 'Yes, it needed something there.' <br /> 'Oh.' I go and the days go by <br /> and I dropp in again. The painting <br /> is going on, and I go, and the days <br /> go by. I dropp in. The painting is <br /> finished. 'Where's sardines? ' <br /> All that's left is just <br /> letters. 'It was too much, ' Mike says. <br /> <br /> But me? One day I am thinking of <br /> a color: orange. I write a line <br /> about orange. Pretty soon it is a <br /> whole page of words, not lines. <br /> Then another page. There should be <br /> so much more, not of orange, of <br /> words, of how terrible orange is <br /> and life. Days go by. It is even in <br /> prose, I am a real poet. My poem <br /> is finished and I haven't mentioned <br /> orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call <br /> it oranges. And one day in a gallery <br /> I see Mike's painting, called sardines. <br /> <br /><br />cassey wolsh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poet-am-i-2/
