Amazed at images of light, he must
progress to oil after four pastels,
advance from clay to filigree of rust
in eighteen metal pours. He never sells
his acquisitions; yearly he’ll adjust
his wiring, add a shelf, pull walls apart.
There’s nothing else compels him like his lust
for ever more expensive works of art.

A reverential boy, agnostic teen,
and atheistic childless adult,
his universe is ordered nice and mean.
The best have lived already. A result
can be predicted. Creativity
for sale evokes his infant ecstasy.