The artist working on the street
Is too meticulous for his own good.
He is facing a large square building
With an enclosed dining area out front.
He is not painting the dining area.
He is not exploring the expressions on the faces there.
Instead, he is painting a landscape,
Adding to it greedily
As if each new detail were a gem
In a treasure chest.
The work, I think, was finished
As soon as it began.
Meanwhile, I sit watching him,
Unnoticed by the passing throngs.
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