Old Paint

'My paintings are my children.'
Fool! Come meet
An artist with no babies.
You bet she'd sell
Those babes for ready cash.
How glib to deign
my life's great loves
no more than painted panels.
It's true: my part in them
is uninspired,
Brute, hard work
Like stretching canvas. But see:
Masterworks of their own volition,
They move with grace,
followed by my eye with hot delight.

by Gay Fay

Other poems of FAY (4)

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