he eyed those in attendance

i learned about Paris

and the bridges that were burned

by Picasso

with a wave of his skilled hand and 

the casual cigarette smoke

and how he saw his pet penis on Her nose

while she slept

fully awake on his red apartment chair.

his first wife knew more than i

but less than he

when they went on vacation

by the early-summer sea

where giant answers went unquestioned,

and kites flew high in the Dinard breeze.

there was a nearby mountain top

and a famous cliff close to the shore

which in a certain light was shimmering period blue

like an ocean wave inching toward 

the colorful fabric of a cabana

which hid the man 

and his youthful blonde toy.

flirting with his paintbrush

like a matador with his sword,

he dipped into Her custom colors

while painting his own legacy,

weeping and laughing,

as the heaving canvas called his name,

imitating the bull in triumph.

and at each future opening,

when he eyed those in attendance,

he feigned an aloof indifference,

always in love with himself,

regardless of the hour

or the name of a song

echoing inside his head.