Eat a cheap peach, drink iced tea, ache kind,
Throw dice worth each system of Metsys, Quentin,
Painter trained in the north, throne of rain.
What law, O muse, old hat, new heater,
Doll’s house absent wall, beats all?
Can fuse or refuse, clean lace, escape landscape,
The pear we reap, not rape, theater of satin?
O saint, my sin, no stain but dire,
There’s my ride, no time to emit
On eve of every sacred dare, scared stiff,
Declared if read, dear to me, Aunt Em,
A meal of tuna salad fit for a lad, a nut, lame:
I, male, nod, don words, drowse
in an inn or a poem, not to mope
in a tub but to note a tone.
— Ed, note: The picture at the top of the page is called “The Money Lender and His Mirrors.” Who painted it? Hint: the painting below it is by the same Flemish master.
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Author: The Best American Poetry
