Rothko

In the Rothko room,

the Rothko room,

I sense I’m sat in a catacomb.

In the Rothko room,

the Rothko room,

a sense of something you might exhume.

In the Rothko room,

the Rothko room,

the floating blues and purples loom.

In the Rothko room

the Rothko room,

you get a sense of suspending doom.

In the Rothko room

the Rothko room,

they’re side by slide

like a bride and gloom.

But, then there’s the yellow ones.

1930 ON THE TRAM, NEW YORK

(nearly all in English)

Robert	Well, one thing that hasn’t changed in the seven years since we left France, Mom, is the pleasure I take from the tram journey.
Mother	Don’t call me MOM!… America has certainly enriched us, Robert, but, I miss my mother tongue I miss my mother country I miss my mother and I miss my citron pressé.
Robert	It’s the straw which broke the camel’s back.
Mother	That’s it… that’s it, Robert! C’est la goutte d’eau qui fait déborder la vase. I have had enough!
Robert	Mother, your eye has sprung a leak. Please take my handkerchief and dab it.
Mother	This country has given us a good living, but I am ready to give it up. It is time to go home.
Robert	And I will return with you. What will become of me, I wonder?
Mother	I will tell you what will become of you, Robert. You will live in Nice, because your gran has moved there and she is old and she needs us. And you will find a great peace, and you will paint your native country with a passion and aplomb. And you will be happy in the country of your birth and you will tread its earth and streets so gratefully, but after eight years of such happiness, you will head for the shores and the trams of England. And please attempt to write to your mother.