Venice beach

with a subtle touch of
black charcoal, her green eyes disappear
where a moment before there was a muse
sitting under the Pacific sunset near Venice beach.
with her singular breath offering advice,
perhaps she was an antimuse when her dark hair
became red as the final rays of the strange day
transformed my outlook:
her face became an idealized portrait of a queen
instead of a wife,
a giantess replacing a slim woman of charm
losing her fire while my back was turned.
i saw an angular fisherman casting stones
into the water with a regular rhythm,
watching the tide move with his line.
and an Argentine child ran with a lively Spanish tongue
into the surf, splashing his small brains onto the evening sky.
a blonde girl rolling her way into town smiled
under a nearby palm tree, which gave me hope
that i could learn to skate with a steady balance.
and i grew satisfied with my painting, just as the
dinner crowd began to thin.
maybe my muse was amused.
i saw her on the boardwalk with an easel under her arm,
and it was a large arm, with a defiant eye watching my walk.
but i like Venice,
and it feels like home.