The Painter

Our cluttered up house

with its books and paintings 

and a dog on the couch 

and a hot kitchen and bacon.

Our yard, clumped up

with azaleas, gardenias,

camellias and pecan trees.

I want to ride in a power boat 

up and down a wide river, 

to see horse races

and paint murals 

a hundred feet high,

eat Mexican food 

and learn to sing Italian.

Instead I sit in my easy chair

and think of painting

on the front porch

in the rain.

You make pork chops

we eat for breakfast.

Life is good, 

we are happy.