We’re all artists in some way, aren’t we?
you, down there, taking pictures of the dirty water,
what is it you are seeing?
And what about the rest of the world,
is it too ordinary, my shoes too plain
does the sound of the crashing waves get old after awhile
like a friend who talks more than what is healthy?
You leave me up here watching
but I remember the colourful river stones you put in your pocket
only to have them look dull on your bookshelf
even the century old books looked brighter
even your face
and the way the refrigerator lights made the leftovers
seem like holy bits of yesterday.
