The Painting

 

The Painting

The oil painting in my foyer—faded red
         truck on a dirt road, tires well-worn,
                  headlights peering beyond

what you cannot see. You wonder
         who parked it there, what lies
                  in the back of the bed, if keys

were left in the ignition. Once on an island
         in Greece, I witnessed an old man
                  planting grape vines in a field.

He carried a blue chair, a place to sit down.
         Chair—color of the sky.
                  Man—brown as the earth.

Sometimes you need to leave a place,
         wander around inside a painting.
                  Other times, you are the painting.