Dulcet Sterk’s Dull Shit Work

Debt and dying never tell you

Which one’s more social in the end.

There’s a piece of outsider art

For sale in a shop in the sun

In one of those pretty small towns

Well-placed for metropolitan

Weekenders who like B-&-Bs.

It’s a farmer’s painted farm chair

Vividly orange and scuffed gold,

With a scene of someone plowing

Painted on the back. Dulcet Sterk

Was the artist, says the label.

Sun’s pouring through the shop window,

And you think the chair might look good

In your Manhattan studio,

But you can’t find a price on it.

There’s something painted on one leg.

When you squint you can see it reads

Dull shit work. Wait, is this a fake?

You’ve never lived in Manhattan.

You can’t possibly pay for this.

Whose life have you stumbled into?

The night nurse wakes you for vitals,

Then back to blinking dark, confused.