The Shed

 

It was perhaps a little larger than a shed should be

 

a regular roof

 

windows –

 

and a door,

 

but no larger than a good sized kitchen.

 

It had been painted with age itself - with various seasons tugging at it over the years

 

just waiting for it to quit –

 

collapse with exhaustion

 

to become rubble.

 

It was such a building that beckoned canvas and oil

 

But the hand holding the brush would have to be old

 

and shake - as a frail branch trying to support an arrogant squirrel.

 

Within my mental image

 

the shed suffers no rot or decay

 

just as the artist who paints it remains free of aches and impairments

 

Life in my thoughts is void of funerals and landfills

 

It is absent of mildew and cancers.

 

Even the music has been treated to keep it from becoming stuck in my head.

 

 

 

(I try to think of everything)

 

zc