But apart from that, we are different in nearly every other way.
He’s practical, you see? There isn’t much he can’t do
when it comes to wood, paint, metal and glue.
In a younger, more arrogant period,
this difference made for an ideological conflict.
The town’s artists were scorned. Who kept them in
lighting, their cars and boilers running?
That’s right, practical types like me
who put magnolia on for you
while you wander the forest
lonely as a mushroom.
Now Steve takes his time lookingat a painting on my wall. He likes
the view of the blue black river,
how she’s glued hessian into the water
to give it texture. Then he sets to it:
lifts a layer of screed, chips away
at the concrete, jack-hammers
a trench to lay copper pipes
that will pump life into this
old room so that the story continues.