La penitenza

I dreamt I lost my identity

to Marcello Mastroianni

in a bigtop production of an 

8 1/2 framed dreamscape of sorts,

bumbling and fumbling over

an easel of genius where the girl

with the meaty thighs waited for me 

to commandeer my palette and brush.

Striking a pose, a hand on each hip,

she explained the penance charged for my

years of icy disaffectedness:

"In reverse order, paint the portraits

of all those you have seen pass away."

I saw them all lined up in tight cells

waiting patiently for my approach,

but I regretted the task at hand,

hoping a bell would sound to wake me.

The gymnast called out to the butler

with spite: "Vorrei ice!  Vorrei giaco!"

And in my head, I corrected her 

"'Ghiaccio' is what you really meant."

Perhaps I'd been wrong, like most artists

in my line who realize the truth

only at the end of the poem;

so maybe she really did want a 

coat of mail and not a cup of ice.