He rings the doorbell hard, repeatedly,
as if it’s an emergency, the original bell
in this old house mounted in the kitchen
pealing like a fire bell, insistent
in a way that cannot be ignored,

summoning me from wherever I am,
from whatever too-important something
I’m doing. So I come, heart-pounding,
because, although I have lived in this
house for 38 years, the urgency seizes me
every time—What now? Oh, no…
Dammit, I’m in the middle of…

But then I see him outside the screen door,
Lanky and blonde, this man as old as
gray-haired me, standing over his latest
latest creations fanned like a wildly colorful
deck of cards on my tomato red porch.

It’s Robert, our neighborhood artist who,
bless him, stops by regularly with all
manner of found objects that he’s
daubed paint onto—boards and picture frames,
the box he’s turned into a slot machine
that dispenses words for the writer,
or paint-stirring sticks morphed into
zombies, sometimes even canvases
when he can get his hands on them—

talking before I open the door, gesturing
with can’t-stand-still excitement,
showing off his latest fever dreams
of creation.

“Look! Look!” the kid inside him cries,
and I look, I look, astonished at his informal
art show, smiling at his rat-a-tat stream
of semi-consciousness flowing over me
like the circular stream of the garden hose.

He’s perennially in media res, in the middle
of whatever thought he’s having, always
happy, chattering about something
wonderful that’s happened—

the head shop downtown that’s featuring
his art, someone has asked him to paint
stands and signs for a pumpkin patch,
the beautiful woman he met in a bar
(“I’m in love, I’m in love,” he sings).

Plus, he’s a sweetie who knows of my
affections, painting typewriters on
a rough plywood rectangle, the Tower
Bridge on a gift box lid, cameras for
my retired newspaper photographer.

“Get Rich! Write A Book!” trumpets
one masterpiece. “For you, the writer!”
he exclaimed when he brought it to me.
And I’d be lying if I didn’t say how
touched I am by his thoughtfulness,
this artist who never asks for anything
but my smiles of delight.

If I saw this guy on the street and didn’t
know him, I might veer away from
his exuberance, his over-the-topness,
unsure of his intentions, torn by dual
self-protective urges of wanting to
praise the weirdos and avoid the crazy.

In truth, I carry a bit of both, too,
as we artistic ones do, as every
appearance of the doorbell-ringing,
zombie-painting artist reminds me.

Wake up! the doorbell calls.
Creativity is literally knocking.
Open it and step into a moment that
will make you smile—a little weird,
a little crazy, every piece unique,
a beacon of brilliance in this topsy-turvy
world that so needs splashes of
whimsy, of spontaneous delight
delivered right to your door.