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.