portrait

on uncle rich's side
of the house there's 
this one portrait he did

the canvas left sideways 
leaning against 
the white wall of his down stairs

it's kept company by partial paintings
& old art school projects 

one of the arch angel gabriel
holding a scroll to his chest

another is a quiet & mundane
oil painting of
a leather jacket slung over
the back of a red chair

when i was still living
at my parent's house i 
would sneak over there 

if the door was locked 
i would climb in through
the window

removing the screen & setting
it out on the porch

it's the small escapes
that we need

dipping my feet into 
his old paintings 

i liked to imagine
him so much younger

my uncle sitting in a studio
with a paint brush in his hand 

i don't remember
many times where i caught
him like that 

in an act of creation 

i'd vanish into his old works

leaning back in the red chair
& trying on his old leather jacket

the sleeves were always too long 

there's that one portrait 

he told me that an older woman
asked him to paint it of her
husband who passed away

that she gave him
two pictures-- 
one of the man aged & grey-haired
one of him smiling & youthful--
baseball bat slung over his shoulder

she told him to simply put
the younger man's smile 
on the older man's face

a project of surgery &
acrylic paints 

the man nods to me when i visit

watches me as i peruse 
sunsets & blotchy pallets

he fixes his hair:
slicked back & wavy--
a storm cloud grey with
hints of his old brown curls

he's got
coat hangers in his cheeks

i think he dresses well 

a red tie & white collared shirt

i often wonder if he was
buried in something similar 

of course his wife found
him unnatural

& refused to pay for 
the painting

that hurt his feelings
(the portrait-- not my uncle's)

sometimes he'll leave
the frame & weep in 
the stairwell up to uncle rich's
bed room

i'd hand him a dish rag
to wipe his face

& he won't be able to
stop smiling

reaching for the corners 
of his mouth sewn into
a grin

many nights after rich
came home from 2nd shift 

his sobs would shake the
foundation of the house

& i would come back to
comfort him

there we'd hold each other 

he'd always apologize
for waking me 

& i'd put a finger to his
mouth like a mother

we'd take a stroll in
the painting on the wall 
of the ocean at chincoteague island

the one with hints 
of orange & purple in 
the sunset 

i'd pick up a conch shell
& hold it to his ear  

eventually he'd fall asleep

heavy, i'd lug him
back to his canvas--
prop him up in position

& sneak back up into
my own bed