In the garden of Sorolla
By Parson Thru
Sorolla’s cold effigy stands poised,
Staring toward the fountain, whose issue
Has brought peace to many a troubled heart
Brow arched, palette cradled,
He surveys the light, brush licking pigment,
I imagine white, dried petals in his hair
Is the moon over Valencia, Joaquín?
Did I leave the gas on?
Is the door unlocked?
Will everything I’ve done finally sum to nothing?
The girl on the bench
Pronounces your legacy “Awesome!”
And that her target height for dates is six-four