THE ARTIST
by Ted Richer
She had her easel, her palette, her brush.
She had her canvas.
“Paint,” I said.
She stared at the canvas.
Hour after hour.
“Paint what?” she said.
I stared, too, hour after hour.
“Paint black,” I said.
She painted black.
So.
She had her easel, her palette, her brush.
She had her black canvas.
“Paint,” I said.
She stared at the canvas.
Day after day.
“Paint what?” she said.
I stared, too, day after day.
“Paint white,” I said.
She painted white.
So.
She had her easel, her palette, her brush.
She had her white canvas.
“Paint,” I said.
She stared at the canvas.
Week after week, month after month.
“Paint what?” she said.
I stared, too, week after week, month after month.
“Paint black and white,” I said.
She painted black and white.
So.
She had her easel, her palette, her brush.
She had her black and white canvas.
“Paint,” I said.
She stared at the canvas.
Year after year.
“Paint what?” she said.
I stared, too, year after year.
“Paint paint,” I said.
She painted paint.
So.
She had her easel, her palette, her brush.
She had her painted canvas.
Copyright © 2017 by Ted Richer.
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