southern sunburn

each of us an artist, he said
as his hands fell to rest beneath
his head. he’s lying on a pillow
of purest gold, and we’re all told
that this will be his dying day. it’s
a priceless picture: it has no price,
it’s not for sale. someone spoke
of southern women, southern women
in the sun, and then his time was done. it
wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad, he’d
led a stunned but somewhat steady
life, and he’d always managed
to banish all his strife. an artist is each
of us: every way, on more days than
not, and the spots we fall into are all
that we’ve got: when life isn’t cold,
it’s much too hot. each and every artist
is one of us: long, tall, and blue, or short,
green, and square: each a flavor, each
an artist in the end. an artist makes a
wager (but never whatsoever a friend):
whether forever is ever an option.
never quite clever enough. sun-studded
toughs sometimes have their say, they’ll
play somewhat rough, and it’s the end
of your day. (oy vey.) each of us an
artist, like a lover, or a painter, or
a listener named louie, each of us
is, each a louie, or a lois, or a
loretta. everyone is someone,
sunburned or submerged in
liquid. scientific studies
are suggestive: they all
suggest it: each
(chacun) of us
(chow fun) is
an artist.