We’re different kinds of artists
You and me
in both our aims and our results
We see the same things
but through different pairs of eyes
and the color you call green
is the one that I call black
The fingers I use to hold my brush
has been broken for long years
The smile you use to calm the crowd
will never give up
The trees you thought you found
me sleeping under
were telephone poles
or cell phone towers
or lampposts
or one-way signs
The sun I thought I found you
reaching toward
was a different kind of light
and the color I call gold
is the one that you call grey
Your baby is my old lady
My foot is your calculator
Your window is my brick wall
My river is your turnpike
your sky is my tomb
My kitten is your dragonfly
We’re different kinds of artists
You and I
