The Painter

The Painter

I wrote this after I woke in the park. I slept there last night. I went to the park and stood on the bridge when I saw a lady painting the bridge I was standing on. I wondered to my self is she would capture my dreams as I stood there. I saw the old lady who slept not to far from me last night and this poem can rushing to my head so I jotted it down as I was there. Watching all this take place.


Five O' Clock on an early morning day
The sun rises in my face as I stare off
while standing on a Boston park bridge
a lady paints my sole.

I look to my right, an O'l lady I see
wrapped in rags, sleeping in the cold dew.
Even a bird with no home hangs on cold stone walls
I wonder what the painter sees

The water is so silent and still
I dream of the little boy in me
swinging on spider trees
Can the painter paint my dreams?

The swan boats bob up and down
the sprinklers come on
The O'l lady awakes in the shock of the waters
did the painter catch the sadness.

I am day dreaming of better days
sad I feel in my stomach
I have no one now.
I think I'll paint the painter