Bread and jam today

Maria. c. Laura Harrison McBride, 2013

Winter is late. Freezing. Cold draughts limbo under front door,
roll up stairs and zig around banisters to
attack me in my studio. Not, no
I will not buy fingerless gloves. I will turn on a space heater. I will
because I am not Degas, this is not Paris, and
I have a meal ticket. A man who
supports my engaging the arts to do battle with
whatever demons make us
all of us arty folk
engage ourselves in repetitive futility.

The best do not repeat. The wealthy
do. The wealthy artists find
a gimmick, a gimcrack, and crack their
muse on its sharp, metallic edges
all the way to the bank. Schnabel pottery on canvas--
oh dear, and other
New York talentless...well, I had better not go there. But,
No frozen, northern-lighted studio for them; they can afford heat. Lights.
Models.
Holiday trips to exotic lands. I can
turn on the heat, thanks to my meal
ticket (dear man, my soul's bread and jam.)

I can labour at one-offs until I tire, then go
downstairs, toss costly grounds
into the French press, stick a piece
of favourite once for-rich-folks-only
white bread into the toaster. Slather butter, spread
strawberry Bon Maman to my heart's content.

Brown bread. I used to bake, before the meal ticket, and drench
in butter and honey still warm. In the old days, the days when
I couldn't turn up the heat. I had no meal ticket. But I wouldn't...no,
never...I wouldn't use a gimmick to attract buyers. Ate brown bread, honey, not much else.
But no gimmicks.
No.

Thank god for my tall handsome meal ticket. I owe him my (he)art.