Sketch Night Poem by Morgan Michaels

Billy went back to work feeling greater inspiration impossible. He drew quickly and easily, relying on his instinct for symmetry, proportion, fore-shortening and tone. Above all, he relied on that poetry of line which even the nudgiest monitor would need admit he had in unusual degree. He shaded, he hatched, he refined lines, he erased, he retraced, he drew from his insight into anatomy. Twenty minutes passed in complete absorption. Then he stopped. When he sat back to study the results, he was astonished- and pleased. His sketch surpassed all previous efforts. He had drawn the model as he posed- draped supine over a bunch of cushions, comfortably back-bent like a modern-day Philoctetes, except for his cowboy boots. However, in further distinction to Philoctetes, the figure in the sketch did not look agonized at all, but rather pleased, and lacked a helmet. It/he might well have risen up and asked 'when do we eat'?

Billy decided this would be the one he gave the model. He caught some others nearby checking out his sketch, which for the moment he considered finished. But they pretended to see nothing and quickly looked away. Artists- almost as jealous as poets- are not inclined to praise their fellows' work unless their own is touted first. Then they will, sometimes, feebly, if in wine or the right mood. Only the older gent who'd spoken earlier, after studying the sketch carefully, said with heartfelt frankness 'that's beautiful'. Billy took the compliment lightly and made his way to the table for a refill, leaving the sketch page open.