The Picture Framer

Half man-half cigarette,
He cocks his staple gun
And fires.
Wood splinters,
And apprentices sigh in awe,
As he puts them into frame.

The man is an old master,
How he draws,
In one smooth motion,
Splattering his victims
With a hail of varnish,
Swirls and whirls to do up dogs
and texture views of Venice
To make them almost painted.

He is the fabricater,
Chewing on myth like a bullet…
The man who bought a Canaletto
At the airport shop
And rang to ask if it was real!

The staff fall about like English Cowboys,
Desperate for the bar-room joke
On their break in the basement,
Wreathed in an Old Holborn fog.
A bell rings…
His fingers yellow as the desert sands,
Sketch out patterns, meanings, mysteries,
They work the herds of prints at a low-paid gallop,
The rate of frames per hour,
Almost cinematic.
Touched up with a make up of golden paste,
At last he whips the pictures into shape
With his masking tape lassoo.
There are no cheers.
The extras shuffle off.
And at 5.30, he strides out with an aura of glue,
Sticks to the sidewalk,
He ranges with his gesso eyes
And dreams of showdowns
Between the sweatshop shacks
His spurs kicking out
November's star sparked night.