First-class painter, Sung Kim.  More
to the point, he knows that class
is not imported wood, etched glass,
and  “desirable” address.  Prig
looks down on a “ lay-about
fancies himself an artist!”  (Want
to see the stiff shiver, show him
your nails.)   Crave class, drop
into a struggling  used  bookstore
where the dust’s got dust. Sung
Kim often finds himself at the one
on Mud Lane.  Always the last
to leave.  Owner nudges, “Time
to lock up, sorry.  Take the book
home, think you can keep from
getting paint all over.”  Shuffle in
two nights later, book under one
ragged, parti-colored sleeve,  pad
under the other. “Clean as a whistle,
take a look.  Brought a sketchbook,
hope you don’t mind.   See the
palette in my sleep.  Antique gold,
lof of rich browns.  No offense, but
I’ll be mixing a fair amount of dust
gray.   Can’t wait to get started.
Probably enough light.. Amber
cast by the lamps perfect.  Just do
a rough tonight.  Bench across’s
empty, great.  Hope I do justice.
Imagine a world without books!”

            (c) Phyllis Jean Green, February, 2010