ON PAINTING

You begin; two shabby mercenaries, adversaries, 

engaged in a battle whose origins or objectives you have no knowledge of, 

wielding enormous shields and unwieldy weapons, 

exchanging blows, never yielding,

when looking down you see you’re in tennis whites on a red clay court, 

returning shots from your opponent, back and forth, 

admiring his tactics, covering the court almost weightless, 

watching your racquet contact the ball,

when you find you’re weary pensioners in overcoats sitting on a park bench. 

He takes from his pocket something fantastic to show you. 

“Beautiful!” you say and touching your sleeve he says, 

“don’t you remember? We made that together.”