February 2, 2013

Walking with Vincent by Bob Bradshaw

I criticize slightly
one of his favorite painters
and he stomps off
outraged.

His red hair sticks up
as he circles back,
his face fiery with freckles.
"Do not insult me again," he says.

Moments later he stoops to pick a caterpillar
off the ground, then places her
with utmost care
on a tree's
leaf.

He surely has felt lonely
his whole life,
even among the miners at Borinage,
where he gave away
what little money he had
to the poor,

helping the only way he could,
momentarily, the way he has
this fallen creature.






Bob dreams of retiring to a hammock.  Work of his can be found at Cha, Eclectica, Orange Room Review, Loch Raven Review and many other publications

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