Sleepy Afternoon, 3:10 P.M.

The sun's taking a bite 
off the chill outside
and I'm in my studio 
taking the age off an old toy
the puppies are napping... 
one has his head on 
the back of the other
like a fur rug they decorate 
the corner of this room
"Nutty buddy and Nickel"... 
my faithful dogs and 
two of my favorite things 
back when I was a wee lad 
and the ice cream man came 
with lilting musical alerts 
to his frosty presence 
on an sultry August day
plates disguised as 
Styrofoam palettes 
dot my workspace
brushes like punk rockers 
with Mohawks stand 
ever so stiffly 
in a contained environment 
till they can lash back 
graffiti style
on the next canvas 
that crosses their 
tempera-mental space
red paint swirls in a
small tornado of color converting 
clear water in an old mayonnaise jar 
to a scarlet reservoir
a painting freshly done 
shows me a place commissioned
that I've never visited 
but have captured forever on french paper
work sits all around me awaiting
the transformation of an idea
into the reality of a buyer's smile 
and some legitimate cash
thus my poem ends as the paint dries 
and the sealer faces applications
and this sleepy afternoon heads towards 
the next step in an unfinished work