THE LAWN CHAIR OF HENRY ROUSSEAU

When I say the Amish
build lawn chairs, I mean
THE AMISH BUILD
LAWN CHAIRS.

Once, while sitting in a
lawnchair under some
figgy green trees and
dappled light and
mysterious green
plants that sprouted
near my feet, I sat
and smoked a cigarette.
“Ah,” I thought silently,
“nothing like the Amish.”

My friend Henry Rousseau
painted me as I sat and smoked
in my lawnchair–Was it built
by the Amish? he asked
in French and beginning
with si vous plait I think.

Because I told Henry Rousseau,
my friend, not my lover (he
did love painting, though!) that
he

Knew nothing of proper
draftsmanship that he then
commenced to paint my
face with a pronounced
5 o’clock shadow.

Did it matter that I concluded
my remarks by opining that
his work denoted the elegance
of a vigorous, supple, poetic
mind? Apparently not. The
shadow remains. And I look
a little thickish around the
middle.

Henry Rousseau,
I regret my suggestion
of your wanting. Please
make me young again–
my beard patchy, if I must
live forever. And I will:
don’t let this cigarette
fool you. Henry Rousseau,

I will be you today
and the Amish will be–
well–the Amish are not
the Mennonites. THEY
own cars. And do you
know what they paint
them? BLACK. Even
the fenders: BLACK.

all artwork, except likenesses of Lyndon B. Johnson, by Crispy Flotilla ® 2006