The Art by Brenton Booth

He was 38 and

had just been 

kicked out of

the bar.

He was quite 

drunk and sat

on his old sofa

drinking more.

It was 12:30AM

and he thought

about going to

the brothel.

Emily would be

there.

He had been 

single for years.

Sometimes the

loneliness was

so great, he 

wondered why

he even went

on with things.

Emily was always

good to him at 

the brothel, but

never answered 

his phone calls.

When he saw

her next, she

always had a 

reasonable 

sounding excuse:

to him anyway.

He decided he 

would have a 

couple more 

drinks, then go

to the brothel.

He felt tired and

the whiskey 

really burned his 

stomach.

He hadn’t written

a poem for months,

and honestly didn’t

care: “What was the 

point really?” he 

thought.

There had been a

time when the 

word meant 

everything to 

him.

Nothing was more

important than

the next line, 

and nothing felt 

better.

He had grown tired

of that though. All

he ever seemed to

get was form-rejections

and bad jobs, that

took too much time

and energy.

He wondered why

he kept going on.

He heard a loud crash.

He recognised the sound.

It was the garbage truck.

He must have fallen

asleep. He opened the 

blinds. The sun was out.

His stomach was on

fire and he had no 

interest in eating.

He splashed some water

on his face and headed

to the park next to

his building.

He sat on the same chair 

as always. Shook his

head in complete 

disgust.

He noticed someone

painting. He’d never

seen anyone painting

there before. “Nice to

see,” he thought.

He looked closer. Was

momentarily stunned. 

The painter looked like

Vincent van Gogh.

“You really are fucked up!”

he thought, and looked 

at the ground on the 

verge of tears.

“Looks like we are the

only ones here,” he heard

from the next seat, and

looked up.

It was the painter. “The 

light on that tree is perfect.

I wish I could get it right,”

he said.

“You look just like Vincent

van Gogh.”

“I get that a lot.  You 

paint?”

“No. I used to write.”

“Used to?”

“I think I am done 

with it.”

“I once knew someone

like that. He was wrong.”

“It’s not hard in this

world.”

“You’re right there.”

“Big night?”

“Disappointing night.”

“I hear you.”

“Life is so difficult.”

“You got that right.”

“You look so peaceful.”

“I am now.”

“You weren’t?”

“For the longest time.

Then…”

“What?”

“Then I learned to trust

that.”

“What? Art.”

“Correct! I have to go. So 

much to do. It was nice

meeting you.”

“You too. I am Robert.”

“You already know my 

name friend.”

Robert heard a loud crash.

It was the garbage truck

again. He was on his sofa.

It was a dream: all just a

dream.

He thought about Van Gogh.

He had outlasted him: or

had he?

He stood up. Poured a glass

of water. Drank it. Found

his notepad. Opened the 

blinds. Put on some music.

And got to work.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com