I Should Have Been an Artist

Madame stoops and clips,
the roses along her fence
for a vase the color of sky.

Their scent invades the table,
clashes with the thick,
brown smell of beef.

I pick at my stew.
Madame watches me.

I could travel to Mortes-Aigues,
make more money there.
Or to Arles and sit at a table

as though I were Van Gogh.
I should have been an artist

with a plain canvas
and the pigments
uncoiling, vivid and thick.

I could paint the plains
and all my dreams quiet.

Instead, I brush colors with my bow.
All the tints of reeds and sea lavender,
the saturated sky.

I transpose my notes
into light on the water.
It is a strange key.

I try to play a portrait
of the girl I cannot see.
I hear only the sun instead.