One winter afternoon, here in my studio,
I remember it was the day after they came to prune the tree behind the house,
the same tree where, once, the Owl perched.

Rummaging through drawers, I found the catalog of an exhibition I had seen at the Guggenheim in Bilbao.
On the cover, Jeff Koons’ inflatable lobster.
I remember thinking:
How lucky I am!
Jeff Koons, the master of the retrospective,
and Basquiat, in the very same show.

On my canvas, the lobster sheds itself, leaving its shell behind.
It knows the one it has is too small, suffocating it.
And that it must make itself a new one.
That is best.

Then melancholy settled in,
like something that has gone,
and will never again be the same,
unleashing the threads of time,
here,
in my heart.

A pink spray can seems to inflate it,
like Jeff Koons’ lobster,
while circles of rusted cans
and Basquiat-like strokes
venerate it.

In the back of the house,
in that now-barren tree,
full moon in Scorpio,
the Owl returned,
but not the same.

Like the lobster.
Like the tree.
Like you.