It was a painting
of a Glengarry cow.
The artist, who may be here tonight,
had rendered it from the side
with her own unique vision
the way Van Gogh did.
Price: $320, sturdily framed.
Into the store
which has long since vanished
came, breathless,
a young woman.
“I got your call.”
“Yes,” said the proprietor.
And pointed dramatically
to the latest
framed pencil-signed
every-blade-of-grass
hyper-photographic
limited edition reproduction
of a foraging racoon
“Number 3407 of 4500–
a good number:
only eight-fifty,
beautifully framed.”
“I’ll take one,”
said the breathless woman
and forked over $850
plus tax.
The cow’s udders
hung, massive,
reproaching the farmer
who was elsewhere occupied.
The voice of the poet
riverwriter reads: