Why Painting is Hard

 

The first thing I remembered were the birds,

a wall of grackles screaming from somewhere

out beyond my ears.

Then it was all the dogs

and the slow moving whine

of trains that were falling back asleep.

 

See, I’d forgotten to weep.

I’d forgotten to make wallpaper out of gourds

and vests out of family newspapers.

The jonquils were burning

and all I saw

was grass turning

the color of money.

 

Tommorrow, I want you to be my guest.

I want rocks to make hammocks out of trees.

I want tires to find time for wine at breakfast.

 

Please, take my heart,

make it the size of Yankee stadium during the ‘59 Series.

Carry it’s mail

like the wind carries our thoughts to North Dakota.

 

O.K., here’s my list:

 

I want grandchildren that fly.

I want houses that sing great big songs (like Woody Guthrie did).

I want streets that dance til 5 a.m.,

angry, sweating, sexy.

I want to wander through your dreams.

 

douglas padilla

1/23/99