Oh honey, let me tell you, I am NOT a painter. I am a poet. And why? Because, darling, I’d love to be a painter. I really would. But let’s face it—I’m just not.
Take the young people, for instance. They’re starting a painting, and I just happen to drop in. “Sit down, have a latte,” they say. So, naturally, I sit down, we sip our lattes—just a little social chat, you know? But I have too much coffee, and soon I’m feeling that jittery buzz, like I might just float away. I glance up, and I swear to you, I see a red-billed chough in the painting. I mean, really? A red-billed chough? "You’ve got a red-billed chough in there," I say. They look at me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah, needed something,” they say. Uh-huh. Okay.
Days pass. I keep dropping by. The painting is coming along, and I’m just casually sipping my latte—never too much, you know?—and watching this masterpiece unfold. Then one day, it’s finished. I walk in, expecting some sort of red-billed chough miracle. But all that’s left is just... letters. “Where’s the red-billed chough?” I ask. They just shrug. “It was too much,” they say. Well, wasn’t that helpful.
But me? Oh, darling, let me tell you how a poet works. One day, I get a thought about a color—red. Just a thought. Simple enough, right? I write a line about red. And then... it’s like I can’t stop. A page of words. Another page. The whole thing gets out of hand—red turns into more than red, it’s life, it’s terrible, it’s poetic! Days go by. Now we’re in prose territory, honey, I’m a real poet. And after all that, guess what? Not a single mention of red in the end. It’s twelve poems, and I call it REDS
And the best part? One day, I walk into a gallery, and there’s the young people’s painting, hanging proudly. RED-BILLED CHOUGH. And I just laugh to myself. Bless their hearts.
