Marc Chagall Comes to Cupertino, California

Until Chagall set up his easel in my backyard,

I hadn’t noticed the depth of blue swirling in our sky.

Until that strange little man called Chagall came,

I never realized how many angels we had hiding

 

in the tomato bushes. (No wonder they’re so delicious!)

What an impoverished life I led before Chagall

cried, "How can a man live without chickens?"

And now a flaming red rooster hides in the plum tree.

 

Until Chagall showed up with his palate in hand,

I never saw how much my meager barbeque

resembled the Ark of the Covenant, never knew

that my cat was really a sphinx, never heard the orchestra

 

tuning its instruments within our redwood fence.

See how my wife now flies above the rooftop!

Look—the smoke curling from the chimney resembles

a chorus line of Cossacks dancing the Troika.

 

Until Chagall set up his easel in my backyard,

I mistook this hot bed voodoo lounge at the center

of the hyperventilating universe for a bland little house

in a bland little suburb in the big bland state of California.

© copyright 2007 David Denny

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Published in Blue Unicorn

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