Turpentine and a sighthound.
I want to die a painter—
mid-morning wine and cafe trips,
turpentine and a sighthound forever
at my side,
layering canvas and palette
over Lanza’s laugh, a booming bass,
working arms like signalmen
to friends afar,
scalp topped with a txapela—
winter walks within my winter years,
carving the great white with
brutish strokes,
all so nearly complete, and then some.