The Artist

He is just a face, in the crowd
His walk is thoughtful, he's under a cloud.
"Should I just do it? I'm losing time,
This is getting worse..but is it a crime?"

A scary thought, furrows his brow,
"What if I'm seen, by someone I know?"
A critical decision, at this juncture
"Maybe it'll burst, maybe a puncture!"

The time is right, he sneaks to a side
Whips it out, to hell with pride.
A great relief, he whistles a tune
"I'm not a girl, what a great boon!"

He walks away, and no one knew
He's lost again, in the milieu.
His art remains, on the wall
A wet parabola, three feet tall.

The Sculptor

He sits by the window, a portly figure
the afternoon train hot, sweaty, beleagured.

People yawn, doze, mostly resigned,
Some hum, daydream, they pass their time.
But one man has a purpose, he has a mission,
he is about to embark on a sculpting session.

He suddenly plunges, a furious spree,
Digging, probing, to get it free.
Will he get it out? the suspense is mounting,
the boy opposite watches, he has been counting.

Ahh, its free! The raw material is here,
the sculptor looks relieved, now with cheer.

The fingers deft, give it a shape,
squeezing, flattening, the boy is agape.
Fierce concentration, the image takes hold,
The boy counts, thats the third one rolled.

He watches his creation, a suspicious glance,
As if it appeared in his fingers by chance,
A thing of beauty, a work of art,
a pinch, a flick, its time to part.

The sculptor relaxes, his job is done,
the difficult part is, picking the right one.