Nobody complains
about the rendering
of an elm limb.
They like to study
the outstretched arm, the
bark, worn and past-elegant.
Nobody complains
the trunk is too tall,
the robin’s nest has no eggs.
That’s not the shade
of a hundred and sixty
year old living thing.
No, they praise
the leaves’ movement inherent
in the painter’s brush swirls,
the scampering of
squirrels at the base and
foreground, how clever!
The shading of the grass
where the ochre afternoon
sun filters the limbs, magnificent!
Try putting a human
in the scene, just once.
Doesn’t even have to be
a grown man, even
a child will do;
then there’s no end
of the complaints.
Boys don’t wear galoshes
in summer! Just look
at his hair! Billy doesn’t
comb it backwards like that;
what are you getting at?
Only boys fifty years ago
had cowlicks, now they gel.
Why is his mouth so large
while his cheeks are puffed?
Are you implying he’s chewing
bubblegum or tobacco?
That’s not a very good
message to be sending,
you know? But you don’t
have any children, do you?
(Tsk-tsk, if this
is your only creation!)
His arms are all wrong
for his legs, they’re out
of proportion! Okay,
I have to give it to you—
his eyes are just that blue,
like the stream in the background.
But about that—don’t you think
it would be better to have him
playing in the water, if
he’s just going to stand there
in front of the tree, doing nothing?
That’s insulting!