My breakup with Visual Art

Not Visual Art produced by others, but

Visual Art produced by my often heavy-handed hand.

I expected the breakup to be messy, but

in fact it was quite cordial.

I told Her I was leaving

and Visual Art said it was fine with that.

Surprisingly, Visual Art surrendered

all Her possessions to my care,

calling it a “clean break”––

but even those possessions

expressed a desire to go out on their own.

That's fine. They’re old enough.

But they did pose for a few snapshots

as they packed, although none of them

told me where they were going.

Well, maybe they told me, but I forget.

It's been a long, long time.

Nowadays, I'm left to leaf-through

the pages of my history with them, and

I enjoy looking at the snapshots.

I see something of myself there.

They have my nose.

Pablo Neruda, closing his remarkable poem

of passion and remembrance, "Where can Guillermina be"

said simply: ––"I came to live in this world."––

Now I'm told that Neruda couldn't draw worth a shit.

So, how 'bout that?