My mother would tell me that my Dad was so talented:
He could sing, he was a fine artist, he knew languages.
But that he had no ambition.
My oldest brother said simply that the Great Depression broke him.
And, perhaps, he felt as I do now: fine arts are well and good,
But you need a job.
Mom said Dad felt abased by the people he worked with.
(Our family was always a bit priggish)
I don’t. Oh, but as a living, art is capricious.
Study hard to learn to work a pencil or brush, to do it well –
And some clown comes along with some strong mess
And attitude and there goes the market.
Some say it’s the art, not the money.
I want a place to stay, a place to cook, a place to sleep.
And a couple of cats, might as well.
Look for that. I’ll be there. And you’re welcome.