Trouville afternoon

gauzy sails
on his silver sea
matching sky of moisture
ready to let loose
a tempest and
drown the delicate boats

the flat painting
grows more
the longer I stare
warn the crew
I want to yell
pull in the sails

but wait a moment
the sky lightens
in the upper corner
the storm has passed
I am watching
the aftermath
the sea is steady now

soft waves roll
toward me
spilling onto the floor
of the museum
I lift my feet
onto the bench

why this painter?
I wonder
he was just a man
his fellows may have been
good or better
why is he the famous one
while they faded into
the gray-green ocean

why is one life
catalogued and criticized
while others as worthy
are lost
behind sheets of rain
until they wash
out of all memory

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