Poetry...
Late Picasso
He called again last night –
for only the second time in years.
I knew it was him. He had on
one of those striped Breton jumpers
and looked like Anthony Hopkins
aged 90.
As usual, he didn’t say much
but fixed everything with
his piercing gaze.
We were sitting either side of a bed
in some Mediterranean clime
and for most of the time he had his back
to me.
He seemed full of joie-de-vivre -
didn’t know he was dead.
I wanted to ask him for a sketch –
a lightning scribble,
but all I could find was a used envelope
and a stub of pencil – without lead.
©2003 Alan Perry
|
|
