I Want to be an Artist

By Paza Oz
Contributor

So I listen carefully
To the analysis
Of Al Purdy’s “At the Quinte Hotel.”
On another side of the class:
In paralysis,
The building outside is where he chooses to dwell.

He’s frustratedly scheming
While caressing (his Luis Vuitton),
Throwing luxury in the mix.
Somehow, he finds it far more interesting
To observe the dull stillness of orange bricks.

He has no relation to the subject,
I reckon.
He would do poetry
But with brute force.
Surely not a talented academic weapon,
Hard to tell if he would even pass the course.

Father says McDonald’s needs some talented staff, too.
He’s right.
Those patties won’t cook by themselves.
If lucky enough, as comes a clue out of the blue,
While flipping burgers, I might write a great poem myself.