Bob Ross Beats the Devil

out of that brush. Wet on wet,
fingers rinsed and lemon-
fresh, keeping smudges off
the skyline. I’d like

that mellow voice to narrate
my taxes, navigate these bills.
The cat needs dental work again,
non-deductible. Bob rescued

squirrels and raccoons, let birds
land in his hair. Assembled
a backyard sanctuary. Snuffed
out the hell-spark of moods

in a thirty-minute landscape
blooming from ashtray to Eden.
I take a break and binge Netflix,
his risky brush strokes:

I’m sure he’s ruined it each time
he adds another long black line
that morphs into a crisp pine. Mountain
peaks receding as the forest grows

lush, impasto-thick, and then a log cabin
that has no windows
but might soon.