Four pictures on the wall hung
like canvas oracles, as constant 
as Hollywood royalty poked digits 
through fingerless gloves, warming hands
over as inner city burn-barrels always aflame, 
always fed fuel, always a ghetto prop
reinforcing stereotypes of the hood.
	I question. I quibble. I  quarrel. 

Brush strokes added textured passion 
feverish, wrinkled fingers place tapioca-like 
pearls on a rust, blue, and mustard backwash 
splattered with alkyd enamels like Jackson Pollack
corner to corner, top to bottom, smudging dead center
with sea sponge spirituality, each artist’s sincerity 
dwarfed by a myriad of emotive abstractions.
	I observe. I internalize. I learn.

All paintings absorb comments, no ears to hear
no mouths to speak—just silently shouting
to expressionist groupies—willing to distort 
reality and thrive on subjective perspectives
indifferent to organic forms and circular breath
as wolf-whistling manatees pucker pouty maws 
lips blowing air like Humphrey Bogart.
	I daydream. I envision. I reflect.
                        

Shaking hides on shore 
like distance swimming 
Chesapeake Bay Retrievers,
otters search for culverts 
explore sloped storm drains
discover life’s coal-black secrets
as stealthy as Gilgamesh en route
to Utnapishtim, braving elements
emerging on muddy embankments
and sandy bars they playfully wrestle
one another to stretch out limbs.

Hiking up tributaries in pairs
they wallow in mud, groom
themselves and scamper up
water troughs; sliding down
on plump bellies—growling 
and squealing in delight— 
they descend each mountain
splash face first into the fjord, 
dig for shellfish, leisurely floating
on their velvety backs, cracking 
clams and mollusks open with rocks.