“There is nothing more beautiful than a sunset.”
The peremptory tone made me suspect
it was his mother had taught it to him,
that stock response to all attempt to win
his heart over to a love of art—
as no doubt was made from many parts—
to gladden the time he spent here,
to bring him to reason and not to fear
such a thing as beauty perfected
by a human mind, confectioned
by human hands. She must have planned—
as no doubt only a scheming mother can—
that he shun all that would distract
from the supremely important task
of holding a job and making money,
in a world in which she knew true honey
to be fare, maybe for some, but not for all.
Call her what you wish but not superficial,
for she read her coop and chicks well,
wagered he would never get paid to ring a bell
that was not the one on Wall Street,
or at house doors to peddle his keep.