We combined our art
as we had joined our lives,
covering the bare walls
with prints and paintings
until the creaky house
exploded with form and color,
Your Frida stared intently
at my Degas dancers,
my fiddler winked from a rooftop
at your chaste Maria.

We met at a time of
grey days and empty pages.
You filled them with
whimsical drawings of
lovers past their prime,
he with a small round paunch,
she with slightly drooping breasts.
Then with a master’s touch,
you dipped your cat’s hair brush
into the vibrant reds and blues
and colored them in.

(Originally published in Big River Poetry Review)