Bill Synder
GREEN GRUB JOINT After, The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum Vincent Van Gogh, September 1888 We take a meal at the Terrace, a table in a crook of green—green bordered door, green shaded windows, glassy table tops reflecting green. But I cross the street for a handkerchief—a cold coming on— eating outside will make me run. And back with a blue one, curly red dots. He sits at a table, fists on his cheeks. No, he says, he is not moping, and no, not crying. Just holding still. His head, he says, ducks and swivels and twists with a world to paint—shingles, fingernails, stars, mist above a stack of wheat. And he listens, he says, to people around, and holds himself, holds still, broods— says he wants to paint sounds someday— sneezes at night, oars in gunwales rowing, hooves on cobblestone—and smell—radish, pine cone, piss in a bucket.
32 Poetry
