The painter

never initials his work

for he waits

and let's the story play out

on the background he's made

he can't take credit

for this world he's created

scrawled on white walls

out of dreams and memories

not theirs-

never theirs-

yet they scrawl over his wishes

with their own signatures

he doesn't mind

nor do they know

the actors

the writers

the dancers

and singers

have him to thank

for a stage

well set

and a setting


a floor

cleared and smoothed

and the echos

fixed to bend

he is the painter

and he never initials his work.