It’s the kind of art
that makes you
contemplate its meaning
for hours
before taking a hammer to it

The kind of art
that boils water
and that’s all it’s good for

The kind of art
that flies avoid landing upon

The artist is a rube
who has stumbled into genius
once
and sparked
slapdash rebellion

It’s the kind of art
that prompts us to say

“everyone must be good at something
once”

Duration is beside the point
Talk of legacy is laughable

The kind of art
that shines when the right light hits it
and come closing time
doesn’t show up at all

but it’s working right now
and when that light gets itself lined up
just right on the piece

it’ll be like a drunk hobo is all over your lapels
spitting unintentionally foul aphorisms
and you’ll tell everyone about it the next day
and keep the story in your party repertoire
for a long time

Once he dared to think
he could be delivered from this,
but it has always pulled him back.

The neighbors stare at his car
all the way to the parking space out front.
One gives a perfunctory wave.

In his childhood home
the air is thick and sugary.  Old songs
cling to his new shoes.

His mother is still waving food
at him and Dad’s still
outside

waiting for the obligatory
visit to discuss the tractor and
the shed.

A quick sandwich to keep the peace,
then back to the car.  He waits
until the turn off from Main Street,

into the back roads leading back to the highway,
to roll down the window,
turn up the radio, and scream.