Portrait of a Young Man as an Artist
The inside flap of some slick, glossy tome
Proclaimed by all the journals as superb,
Airbrushed and turtlenecked in monochrome
And beaming out above a brilliant blurb.
The truth? You’d not believe the time it took
To fluff that wig. His paunch, below the fold,
Would, if included, nearly bow the book.
(On top of which, the picture’s twelve years old.)
If you have any comments on this poem, Daniel Galef would
be pleased to hear from you.