The street was crowded
and at every corner
I turned and
thought of the muse
that shimmered
like a diamond
soaked fog
on the San Francisco Bay
I used to sit there and watch
the still shots of
life surrounding me
a long time ago, it seems
but it wasn't
it's like painting a picture
something always escapes,
an elusive detail robbing
the canvas
colors run together slowly making
life of what was just
gray matter
moving fast forward, I stop the
train and turn to look over
The palette
it almost had me thinking otherwise
but it made perfect sense.
Painting by Mark Rothko
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