The Artist

Their refuse was recycled with character –
haunted wine bottle eyes, copper chest sinews,
gaping soup can mouth, all welded loosely
to a sprocket brain by wires and child-like whimsey.

Oil-drum feet were moored in concrete
ponds. Art reached into the front yard
trees with aviator arms, disdainful of all
neighbourhood protests and pleading petitions.

On sunny days, the artist climbed the old maple
to sit beside the behemoth’s chicken soup
grin and spy into nearby alleys,
where dilapidated hookers lounged.

Long into red sunsets, he contemplated new-age
art and the inflated price of decent garbage.