Materialization, by David Barnes

Today I saw Picasso
in my kitchen;
he glanced at me mournfully,
a sinister, jaded green, stark within the frame
on my wall,

thin, gaunt, haunted,
haunting eyes frail flesh, skin on bone.

    So much grief
                        cleaved to canvas.

Did he ever understand,
the impression, he would leave
that millions would pass

through colors,
                      in to his world, of worlds within.

His gaze left me
somehow, a work of art,

        ready to dry out,
                  deteriorating with age.

I deduce one day,
my son will say of the picture
he holds of me,
my flesh, skin on bone, was pastel,
not jaded green.

and in my passing, I was no Picasso.

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