Wednesday, July 5, 2023

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

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