The Artist

Beautiful, in this morning glow.

On the floor are scattered shards of pure light,

maybe glass, or water.

On the sheets, rose petal red

painting flowers damasked and stinking,

sweet and sour.

I'm like a magpie, clutching

the glistening metal, my Excalibur.

The microwave detracts slightly

from the work of a genius.

But look,

here is the masterpiece,

made up to the nines, movie star,

only silent,

Marilyn.