Poem about the gallery and my work- by Gary Margolis

Chicago gallery, landscapes of his city,
images from where my daughter
once lived, among the painted maples,

the rusting, barnyard cars. Partial
to his style of making it seem
the Chicago River and blossoming

neighborhood trees are real
as the window-shopping strollers,
I want to reel in for him. Want to say,

think of his children and wife,
how perfect that photograph, no
his rendering of tourists on the Art

Institute’s steps appear
through the red and yellow tulips,
how the bronze, green lions will guard,

adorn your living room. Each time
you look to your familiar wall,
remembering the afternoon

you walked by and couldn’t afford
not to walk in. To feel his artist’s mind,
his painting heart. My daughter felt

the first time she saw a green bicycle
leaning against a wrought fence,
that African-American woman, her right

hand on her right hip, in her white
suit with attitude, through her
husband-to-be’s blue eyes.