One More Painting
He simply wrote,
“This isn’t the world that I’d hoped for”
and then shot himself in the head,
but it is not for you or I to judge.
I knew him as a kind man who
tried to do the right thing,
and a traveled man who
with a brush had a genius hand,
painting as no other
the mountains of New Hampshire
the Charles River in Boston,
the snow cap peaks of
a cactus on the outskirts of Scottsdale,
and even a crusty Chicago corner at
dawn, with the trash piling, awaiting
the dark monster.
He painted an elderly woman with
a patch on one eye,
resting on a park bench in Pittsburgh,
and the bay in San Francisco at dusk,
and a water tower in Cincinnati at
ten till midnight, full moon.
People, places, things, he painted,
but I think he liked his landscapes best,
and I wonder if he’d just stuck with them,
he might not have pulled the trigger,
or maybe it was just one more painting
that he had to finish.