Picasso

How can we believe he did it—

every day—for all those years?

We remember how the musicians

gathered for him—and the prostitutes

arranged themselves the way he wanted—

and even the helmeted monkeys

with their little toy car cerebella—

posed—and the fish on the plate—

remained after he ate the fish—

Bones—What do we do with this

life?—except announce: Joy.

Joy. Joy—from the lead—

to the oil—to the stretch of bright

canvas—stretched—to the end of it all.

Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2008 by Tim Nolan, whose most recent book of poetry is The Sound of It, New Rivers Press, 2008. Poem reprinted from Water~Stone Review, Vol. 11, Fall 2008, by permission of Tim Nolan and the publisher.