the milwaukee art museum where
my boyfriend titles untitled paintings.
blue shelves. itchy suit.
spiderweb chandelier and
suitcase aquarium.
he gives a moment of concentration,
then a profoundly simple declaration.
so easy at finding words for nameless pieces,
he calls me honey, sweetheart,
babycakes, lover.

the highway is the simple answer of
how we got here,
the response he would surely give if
an envious stranger would dare to ask.
he calls it as he sees it
without pretense
gulping
sidestepping dances, and
here i am, the ex-
assistant manager in training of
complicating the straightforward.
he is the wetly inked line from a to b,
the strolling, shrugging, laughing, replying
"well, i don't get
what's not to get!"

portrait of the artist's sister, with stink lines,
he professed at the
chicago museum last year.
i might have struggled for hours with labeling it,
a working title only,
the depression of a young ballerina
caught without her tights
before the show
and her parents are
in the audience wondering.
he's got it down, everything, and
although i can ask him a million times,
those thrillingly easy answers
never change.