The great Artist is at work.
Around his house, his children move in whispers, while
his wife lays down a dinner tray,
tells that it’s there
with two soft taps – no more – upon his study door.
The great Artist begs his work
to yield to him, to offer up its answers, while
outside, his children move away
(as children always will, towards play)
and food that took
an hour to cook – or more – turns cold upon his floor.