From time to time you run across a word
That yearns to be enpoemed; a lyric chime,
Its force enhanced (although it’s rarely heard)
By bouncing rhythm and internal rhyme.
Sometimes a painter errs, repairs with strokes
That cover his mistakes. A century flies—
And scoundrel Time mischievously invokes
What lies beneath deceitful surface dyes.
In short, you can’t forever hide your sins
Your foolish errors, misdirections, quirks.
No matter how you shape and tan your skin,
Beneath, life’s detritus, unseemly, lurks.
Both art and life reveal the debts they owe
To age’s creditor: pentimento.
(12/11/12)