Increase faith in our process over fear of our failure.
Of all starving artists,
I was most content to be
poor, to own nothing in this world,
save the art stacked against the walls,
the life-sized paintings of Bohemian women.
My artist’s loft held uncertain
ruminations of pen and page,
the scripts of playwright, actor, and director.
I watched the luminaries
parade by with their advice
beneath my window; they were promising
and exacted their arts and sciences
as a woman compels her child
to perform with finesse, with
a futuristic style that promised
wearing a top hat, a cape, and procuring a rabbit.