Through rose-colored Glasses 68 x 42 - mixed media on canvas
I’M IN LOVE
with the portrait of a certain poet
composing a few wet verses
in her bath. Little kid’s in love
with the ball he’s kicking around, would
fight to the death for it. I know someone
in love with the youngish Iggy Pop, his hebre-
phenic squalor, his flexible graceful damaged
body diving into an audience. But it’s Iggy’s need
to be loved that he really loves. A certain poet
loves Black Sabbath channeled through Wolf Alice
on Giant Peach, the live version, and I love
Italian cities in the first chill of morning, smelling
of espresso mixed with chocolate, brioche crumbling
through my fingers while I stand watching workers
reading pink colored sports pages, nervous, twitching,
longing for a smoke, and who look up whenever an elegant
woman walks by, which is often, and I love that the men know
instinctively when to raise their eyes. I love it that
my wife stands on her toes whenever she’s ecstatic.
