Drinking with Jackson Pollock, Advice on Buying an Easel

That day when it came on, it just came on, The way I guess some things do near the end. Maybe like a scene for one of your paintings, But the image dries inside, before your brush. All I know is the beauty in the words is gone, Like oil paint, left too long drying on a palette, And we both laugh at these stupid analogies. So, you say something about painting words, Or a drunken bard, unable to draw a stickman, And we both have to laugh at ourselves again. You have to look at a thing funny sometimes, Especially if it’s something that isn’t anymore. Finally, we find our footing, and get to talking, So, I tell him of the long journey words take, And how quick and forceful they had left me. When I finished my diatribe eulogy on words, Jackson tells me of an old, but trendy art store, Tucked away on the east side of Wickenden St., Where they sell wooden easels at a good price, And we laugh and drink to all the world has left.