The Painter sat on his stool, hands on his knees
Studying his concave canvas,
Like the blank walls of an amphitheater.
The first step was the simplest.
With wide strokes, he took the blue from robins' eggs
And painted the whole sky.
He flipped a switch.
Behind the canvas, a golden glow warmed the blue.
Now texture was needed, and he had just the thing:
An aerosol can of strawberry whipped cream!
His arm swept left to right and back again.
Now lines of sweet, pink fluff floated above the dark horizon.
Hmm, too puffy.
He smeared the foam with his fingers,
And the golden glow shone through the pink:
Tropical orange. Delightful!
And the Painter was pleased with his streaky, foamy, glowing celebration of color.
But perhaps it would be too much for drivers,
Whose eyes were needed on the road and not the sky.
So he set a timer on the lamp behind the canvas:
And the road stretched west into sea-foam blue fading gray,
And pink-peach clouds fading blue,
And gold-orange light sinking down,
And then only headlights remained.