To the Late Bob Ross of PBS’ The Joy of Painting Fame
By Mark Rodehorst
Let me live—inside your brain
inside that cottage sprouting from that sloping mountainside with only palmer stars
and levitating mountain goats for neighbors
inside a hovel along that leisurely riverside who knits intricate sweaters out of that textured snow
inside a tepee surrounded by that reposed plain who will never be awakened by a
screaming a car horn
inside a hollow in that crooked auburn tree who stretches its limbs in worship to the sun
who will never tell it that it is crooked
inside that clearing with its speckled pebbled pathway connected to that rocky beach
who will never know what it feels like to be buried in concrete
inside that infinitesimal shack along the banks of that faded stirring sky dwarfed by the
unblemished mountain trinity it bows to
inside a canoe docked on that unnamed island just beyond the breakers which lead to a
shoreline who will never smell the burning stain of sweet crude
inside that tower who mimics the moon but will forever shine since it’s not subject to
stratospheric whims
inside a barrel going over that waterfall which feeds that crystal blue stream who knows
nothing about heavy metal poisoning or industrial runoff or eutrophication
inside a mound near that eternal and topless pine who will never worry itself over slash
and burn farming or desertification
inside that world that is so outside this one
inside that cottage sprouting from that sloping mountainside with only palmer stars
and levitating mountain goats for neighbors
inside a hovel along that leisurely riverside who knits intricate sweaters out of that textured snow
inside a tepee surrounded by that reposed plain who will never be awakened by a
screaming a car horn
inside a hollow in that crooked auburn tree who stretches its limbs in worship to the sun
who will never tell it that it is crooked
inside that clearing with its speckled pebbled pathway connected to that rocky beach
who will never know what it feels like to be buried in concrete
inside that infinitesimal shack along the banks of that faded stirring sky dwarfed by the
unblemished mountain trinity it bows to
inside a canoe docked on that unnamed island just beyond the breakers which lead to a
shoreline who will never smell the burning stain of sweet crude
inside that tower who mimics the moon but will forever shine since it’s not subject to
stratospheric whims
inside a barrel going over that waterfall which feeds that crystal blue stream who knows
nothing about heavy metal poisoning or industrial runoff or eutrophication
inside a mound near that eternal and topless pine who will never worry itself over slash
and burn farming or desertification
inside that world that is so outside this one