literature

The Big Picture

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By
tinkertype
Published:
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Literature Text

They told me to look at the big picture,
but don't they know
that it takes years to walk that far?

In seventy more or so,
I might be able to stare
in fascination, take in
every color and texture,
realize the grand meaning
of all things at last.

I would look down at my hands
wonder how they did it all,
touch every callous
and know what I gave
and what it took—
because there is a difference.

My eyes are too close to the canvas,
the tip of my nose in the paint
And this shade of purple looks more
like a bruise, or is that a mirror
I'm looking into?

I back up, step by step
and I look and look
but the only thing that I see

is that I am not an artist.
Every brushstroke looks like
a stutter and every shade a
hesitation, or a hallucination.

Press my knuckles against my eyes,
blink twice, breathe deep
make sure that it's real
touch the paint and breathe again
but every delay is
another day that's slipping
past my stained fingers.

Washing my hands
for the twelfth time,
Don't know if it's the soap
or the tears in the water
making it sting.

Every day,
and every paint,
in every callous
to show exactly what it took
—or what I gave,

Not sure if there's a difference anymore
but feeling like I should make the distinction.
This one was stuck in my head for the longest time, and I keep tweaking it, like a painting on canvas that just isn't quite... finished.
© 2012 - 2024 tinkertype
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