I approach the holidays with trepidation,
Still unable to find Norman Rockwell
Standing before an easel in my living room
Or out on the picturesque porch
Under an eave festooned with Ivy.
Salvador locked him out long ago
Melting all the doorknobs and
Placing the keyholes out of reach.
He is discussing with Picasso
The possibility of Van Gogh’s entry,
All that blurriness being
As close to reality they’ll allow.
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