Gauguin, we need your women
standing before palm trees
in the aftermath of hurricanes,
a sense of idyll on an island.
Cezanne, come back and paint a landscape
in oranges and greens, where a mountain top
emerges on a dry, hot afternoon,
cicadas racketing, no cars.
Monet, come back, and paint a field
of poppies, unlinked
to mercenary farmers, middle men,
a needle-strewn mattress in a room.
Cezanne, will you paint
a vivid canvas of guardrails,
orange and white striped traffic cones,
a swirled sun beaming off the curves.
Come back and walk with me, Van Gogh,
even though our meeting might be wordless.
We could eat a sun-warmed peach,
meet on the hopeful taste of yellow.