The Painter Tourist

by Bill Yarrow

They photographed his oneiric head against a Baroque ceiling
The whole thing had an oddly green feel
His wife held a dollar bill against her ear and bellowed

Even the priest from Cleveland was amused
He tried to draw what he saw but a finger blister distorted his line

Then the weather turned
Ripe rain sideswiped the garden from clouds the color of raisins

There was an odor of dried audacity
God was having his way with the rich infidels of Muskegon

He looked down at his wet sketchpad
He had drawn a map of capitalism

Seven months later nostalgic for Sleeping Bear Dunes
he crossed the drum circles of Venice Beach

where red seagulls demanded he give up muscatel art