The Gallery

Up the alley, beside the bay
Signs say simply, readings today
Paintings are hung, slightly askew,
Artists graze on chroma and hue
Brush, pen and word will have their say.

The sky had turned a drizzled gray
I took a seat, I thought I'd stay
The murmur ceased, a whistle blew
Up the alley, beside the bay.

The poet spoke, as if to pray,
The words she said with hushed dismay
An inner life of pain construed
Whispered phrases hard and true
Paint the picture the writer's way,
Up the alley, beside the bay.