Stuart Krimko

I was visiting Paul Klee
and I had to pee.
I went into this bathroom
and saw
a toucan's claw
Where did he get it?
I wanted to know.
It started to snow.
Paul mad tea.
I was empty of pee 
and went back 
to the kitchen 
where he was 
watching the water boil. 
Life of toil,
emptiness and art,
where does pleasure 
start?
The toucan's beak?
The strong over-
powering the weak?
I looked out the 
window and saw
a pigeon with 
a twig in its maw.
Paul put teabags
into a teapot
and later poured
tea into a teacup
for me, and
tea into a
teacup for him.
We drank tea 
and watched the snow,
and Paul told me
everything I
wanted to know 
about the terrible
life the toucan 
had, and why
he kept its claw
upon his toilet.
Telling you 
this story 
would soil it,
so let's be content 
with watching
the flakes, so 
much like leaves,
wedding caks
scattered, or wedding
dresses tattered

When the tea was done 
we said a prayer 
for the sun, and 
hoped it would 
come back one
day. Paul had 
nothing more to say.
I left him then.
The artist
and his toucan 
claw, the snow
like matrimonials:
jungle leaves
of green, 
a lushness for 
which the artist grieves,
a pigeon
obsessed with a twig
I lit a cig-
arette.
The smoke 
rose in the winter
sky like
a minaret. 
I called myself 
to prayer, watching
Paul's silhouete 
prance and pirouette
in the window, 
in the warm glow
of his next show.