The Fissure

Woozily waking and wining,
Sucking cigarette and sighing,
Puffing pipe and perspiring,
The artist readies the brush
Colors clash and resolve
Hues arise and dissolve,
Then the late night push
Coffee commando and smoke
Wraps round the easel with hope
That alights on the face
Of the shepherd in forest faraggio
But he isn’t some late coming Caravaggio
A splash of reddest dawn
Still with multicolored boots on
Mist of sweat around the figure
Tugs down his hat but looks bigger
As the canvas clears and fissures