Painting by Vincent Van Gogh
When I saw you in Paris in the spring of ‘87
your eyes were yellow-green and steady.
Your head was made up of short, broken strokes
of carrot color hair, styled like my father’s.
You were surprisingly neat. I noticed that
your blue cravat matched the buttons
on your jacket. Even in detached Paris,
you were emotionally motivated.
Your compassion for toil-worn souls
was still apparent. Even though your
palette was light and airy then,
I knew that your heart still belonged
to those who ate potatoes
in the semi-darkness.