A Pollack Still

Selection night, on the boulevard of
abstract dreams.
Art is waiting for his break.
A shadow, rain streaked
and obscured. standing tall
and thin,
Interesting under acid yellow light,
spilling bright onto wetly pitted
pavement.

A Pollock still perhaps
but for the detail in grey,
an animation of siver smoke
rising, teasing tendrils
tinged sepia
by acid yellow light.
A nice touch,
the panel nod approval.

But of fire, there was none.
One or maybe two
but none for sure and no heat
on this beat.
His shoes showed wear and his hair
was grubby but his hands.
Oh those hands, divine,
fastidiously clean, fine, fine. Fine!

As he stepped out of the light
into the revealing darkness
of half past midnight.
A straw man in a stick world,
politically incorrect at best.
To face at last his first test.
Light, camera action.
The canvas is so demanding.

Erect he stood
before the selection panel.
“Too upright” they said.
“The slump is in, recession is
de rigueur don’t you know.”
Depression the thing,
“Could he dress in black”
they asked “But no. Perhaps not”

So the stick man, (of straw)
wandered back
to the comfort of the pavement,
once more rain steaked
and it seemed, uninteresting.
Obscure under acid yellow light
the tableau of
the rain streaked night restored.
The street once again quiet.
A Pollack still in acid light.

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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