Community Poet's Corner
by Diane Pecoraro 
I
almost passed up two orange plastic bistro chairs
at a garage sale last week. I am so glad I didn't. The
chairs are perfect on the patio. But in life, at
times, we all resist taking something we may really
want. The following poem is about a time when I didn't
buy something beautiful- something that made my
heart trip. I regretted it later, of
course.
Painting Left
Behind From far away, the painting
looks important
even propped carelessly against a
light pole,
not quite straight, asking some
passerby
to stop and have a look. A dignified
painting
standing alone on a Saturday night in the
final hours
of a garage sale on a busy avenue of
ethnic eateries
with hand-written
signs.
At the sighting, I brake and back
up
surprising the cars behind; there is no
curbing
the excitement of this find-
this radiant orphan set
out on the curb.
Close up the painting, a
cityscape
spills a yellow river and muted
buildings
across the large canvas with splash.
It's minutes to closing. The owner wants an
offer.
The image draws me in. The price is
right.
Then reason whispers in its
way:
Too large. Won't fit in the car.
Daunting,
the heavy bolts needed to mount its bulk on
the wall.
I look again long and longingly, walk
away.
Painting and I part. No dilemma about how to
hang it,
no need to borrow someone's van, gone the
worry about location.
The painting's bright splendor
is left on the road to be tossed
into a dumpster or
stored in the dark corner of a closet.
It had an
audience for the last minutes of a summer
sunset.
Some time later one must
ask:
What does practicality have to do with
art?
And how does reason fit with a flutter of the
heart?
