Dear Mr. Ross

Your paint always sticks
to the canvas – mine slides
right off: chocolate sauce
slumping down ice cream,
cheap mascara oozing
from my spindly lashes.

Why don’t my trees look happy
like yours? Mine are sinister
with their twisted branches
smeared in Van Dyke Brown–
crooked figures that resemble
my little sister’s hangman sticks.

The colors of my ground
turn putrid – sulphuric, sickly yellow
tinged with hospital-gown
green that clashes violently,
leaving greasy stains like after
I vomited on Mrs. Freeman’s floor.

The clouds I paint are not fluffy,
they’re clotted with concern
as my palette knife slashes at
the cheap canvas with a thwack–
no matter how gently I approach,
it bites back.

I swear: I talk to it softly
with smooth horizontal strokes
but my hand shakes and spasms.
Is there a beautiful little painting there?
Just my reflection.