Elegy

That bulb
burnt out;
It's kind of what
they do.
And the melancholy
wasn't for the bulb,
but the picture
it illuminated.

We thought it beautiful:
sweeping brushstrokes,
robust color,
thought provoking
presentation.

Outside,
in sunlight,
it was hideous:
crayon scratchings,
eraser marks,
a thousand errors
traced and retraced.

We looked at it,
confused as children,
wondering
why we hung
the damn thing up
in the first place.