ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 3月5日 01時10分

Not sure you would eat that night,
mother laid up, a bottle of Tangueray half emptied through whose light from above her drunken head spreads waving, ironic shapes on the bedside table.
You grabbed anything flat lying around:
cardboard, plywood, the blank sides of
crumpled up letters that were unfinished and thrown to the ground turned yellow, and
old prints that were left from when she would sit down with you and still had the energy, though with such skeletal hands, to demonstrate how to become one with what you were sketching.
Downstairs, in front of the brownstone,
you sat them up, even before they had dried,
asking those walking by what they might
pay for a painting like that,
as you held the closest one up of
a window and the quiet of nature dancing
beyond it. I’m sure your face was a study
of gypsies, the eyes hopeful and raw,
gone into the reaches of your youth suddenly blossoming among these fine men with varicose pockets, little mouth slightly swollen from a rush of hormones. You sold every last canvas, feeding later that night your mother from a spoon that the Asian man, from down at the grocery store, gave you for free.
Photo by: @suzanne_stein #timesup #reallife

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