Sébastian

The artist exhibiting his work

in this dingy, downtown gallery

paints nothing but bowls of fruit.

Maybe he has some other

themes in his vapid repertoire

but all that’s here

from wall to wall

are bowls of fucking fruit,

ones so dull and trite

he should have handed us

espresso as we browse.

In a whisper,

I ask you if he’s ever read

the news, notices the homeless

in their rags a block away,

a mother selling her body

near the stoplight, kitty-

corner to where we’re trapped,

unwilling to cause this dilettante

offense,

that we’re pressed

by etiquette

to act like we’re

enthralled, eyeing every

stroke, insipid tint

and tone,

that we’ll be obliged

to tell this boring hack he’s great,

we’d love to take his card,

maybe purchase something later,

but before that dénouement,

here’s a banal bowl of apples

to make us think

life’s peachy-keen,

forget the Black youth

gunned by cops—

here’s a pair of

avocados

and the Residential

“schools”—

bananas have never

looked better

please don’t speak

of genocide—

the plums still have

their pits

and the earth getting

hotter by the hour—

see the orange

and its arc,

how fresh it looks

in my vessel,

its sweetness in my mouth

once I’ve put my brush away,

kissed the photo of my wife

snapped a day before she died.

Andreas Gripp

July 23, 2023

RF Image