The Artist And The Poet

They sat outside so he could have a smoke.
   They drank Americanos in the sun.
Each bitching how they hated being broke
   And always eating Big Macs on the run.
   But that was life.  And life was mostly fun.
Except for socks with far too many holes
   And landlords every month they had to shun.
Such is the price one pays for feeding souls.

"I've titled my new piece 'The Velvet Cloak.'"
   The Artist smiled, adding cinnamon.
They sipped their coffees.  Then the Poet spoke
   And later wished she never had begun.
   "I'm so glad words are what I use to stun
Instead of messy paint and mixing bowls."
   The Artist stormed inside to get a bun.
Such is the price one pays for feeding souls.

When he returned, he had a diet coke
   And murder in his eyes for everyone.
He'd turned the color of an artichoke
   And jabbed his finger at her like a gun.
   "My genius doesn't need a clever pun.
Or ballade rhymes?  I seek much higher goals.
   You write, I paint.  There's no comparison!"
Such is the price one pays for feeding souls.

Envoy.

   Dear Muse, this argument cannot be won.
But both deserve a hearty round of skoals!    
   From Cezanne to the sonnetry of Donne,
Such is the price one pays for feeding souls.

Jill Williams

If you've any comments on her poem, Jill Williams would be pleased to hear from you.