Despair of yellow if you wish — The taint of choleric bile, Midas’ daughter, snow pee, jaundiced eyes. While Orpheus’ golden lyre went to Hell and back, sunlight echoed on dayend clouds, towheads ran on Baltic sand, dandelions colored my hand. Jacob’s stairs still ascend — presumably to Heaven — But who waters the geraniums?
My friend, the under-employed artist, sold photos to the Sunday edition of the paper. Strictly freelance, not a regular job. “Shoot anything but put three kids in the middle, in red, blue and yellow.” The formula never failed. Every Sunday, $25. It paid the rent.