I press the chop-saw through a two-by-four
and Van Gogh glares dust down around him.
Just above his head the rim has a bad chip.
His expression says, I never asked for this
as if he knew fate would glaze him.
I make another cut: yellow dust flies and settles
on the last of the cold black in my mug. I pause,
held by his steady gaze…then check my mark
and press the saw through wood again.
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Tags: art, carpentry, coffee, continuity, discernment, fate, home, morning, pop-culture, project, Saturday, saw, self-portrait, surprise, Van Gogh, vision
Most of these are original poems. I hope you enjoy them and will visit again. Please take a moment to leave a comment...and thanks for stopping by. 
I like this, John. The silent exchange between the two artists. Which one gets the last say? Several years ago I gave my first attempt at oil painting to my mom. A painting made specifically for her. She sawed off the top and side of it (maybe just a 1/4″ or so) to fit it inside a storebought frame. I still can’t get over that.
Thank you. And thanks for sharing a bit of your story.
Are you still painting?