rhythm painting

Antony showed up. He knocked unannounced at the studio door. I peeped out gripping a wooden club and saw his face. "Is this your painting? Are you a painter?" He was looking at the rhythm painting, the one in the picture. "Yes." "And this one?" he said pointing to the chalk painting just next to it, the one that had been there for two years. "No." "I'll give you a hundred bucks for your painting." "OK." He handed me a card, he was a poet. "You're a poet?." "I study business but I'm a poet on the side." He was a poet, I already knew it. "Where can I hear you read?" "At the factory tomorrow." "OK, I'll be there." I wanted hear some words. "Man, that's..." he pointed to the rhythm painting, nodding his head. "See you tomorrow then." I closed the door and Antony walked off. I stood there all gruff with a club in my hand and thought of Paul, my friend who lost his mind back in the short days just out of high school. I thought, "I could use that talk old man." Then I sat to write it.