The mural is not your best work.
The intricate delicacy of the lilacs
That ate your lunch, as you said,
Smell like the perfumed wind
Of my grandmother’s house early spring.
The Indian blanket’s irregular petals
Tease people passing in their cars
With their outsized show of warmth.
The sun hitting the wall at strange angles
Is something you allowed for, yet
It’s not your best work. Neither
Is the trompe-l’œil garden with pergola
Painted on the rich couple’s wall,
The cockatoo cussing from the sun room
while you painted and cussed back at it.
Your best work is always the one
The artist believes it to be, always next.