Painting naked women makes them nude,
And I do long to see two painters feud
Over my full size portrait, wielding brushes
And colorizing my impromptu blushes.
There was a painter once whose eagle eyes
Pierced through my skin like penetrating spies
And saw tomorrow in my outstretched hand,
Wielding a baton, leading the home band.
Alas the prophet’s dead, but not his sight,
Which carried me through deepest, darkest night.
In memory of Henry Koerner