I am not a painter, I am a poet. br Why? I think I would rather be br a painter, but I am not. Well, br br for instance, Mike Goldberg br is starting a painting. I drop in. br "Sit down and have a drink" he br says. I drink; we drink. I look br up. "You have SARDINES in it." br "Yes, it needed something there." br "Oh." I go and the days go by br and I drop in again. The painting br is going on, and I go, and the days br go by. I drop in. The painting is br finished. "Where's SARDINES?" br All that's left is just br letters, "It was too much," Mike says. br br But me? One day I am thinking of br a color: orange. I write a line br about orange. Pretty soon it is a br whole page of words, not lines. br Then another page. There should be br so much more, not of orange, of br words, of how terrible orange is br and life. Days go by. It is even in br prose, I am a real poet. My poem br is finished and I haven't mentioned br orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call br it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery br I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.