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.