the real artists

the real artists assemble mother-boards,

sports shoes, clothes, and purses.

the real art is the art

of re-assembling the world

every day.

the real artists go where

they're ordered to go when

they put on the uniform, whatever

uniform it is.

the real artists, they

change old people's diapers,

teach five-year-olds to read,

serve eggs to smirking

college students, empty

professors' trash cans,

sweep the floors

of art galleries, change

light-bulbs in auditoriums,

breast-feed, cook, clean,

get groceries, carry water,

look after grandchildren.

the real artists manage

crews, staff shifts, order

raw material, stack lumber,

run bureaus, process forms,

maintain websites, take

complaints, withstand

verbal abuse.

they mix cocktails, dance nude,

look for food in dumpsters,

rant from the caverns

of mental illness.

they protect children.

they haul freight.

they haul people.

they wash clothes.

they pick up bodies

lying on highways.

they wash corpses.

they mourn the dead,

help the maimed recover,

grieve with the bereaved.

they migrate away

from the smoking rubble

left by bombs

they keep their families

alive on a long hike

out of a country wrecked

by demonic dictators

they negotiate their way

around insane shouting racists

and people waving guns

the real artists know how

to add and subtract.

they walk or stand til

their legs and backs ache.

they show up on time and

kill vermin. they plant crops

and then wait, watching

the pale blue ceramic

sky of drought.

hans ostrom

2012/2020