He moves across the green, with shufflin shamblin strides, grocery bag swingin, a contra rhythm to his gait, paint flecked overalls, surround a wrinkled flannel shirt, in times gone bye, Hobo, would cross your mind, walking past an arched facade, he turns the corner on round, to the back a carriage house, transformed to Vulcan’s lair, whirrrrs of belts and motors, less than alchemy but certainly magic, flashes of blue white lightnin, golden burst of sparks, as metal screams in indignation, points and angles flaring curves, chased and burnished, textured patinaed, faux finishes, deep and tortured reliefs, Range Rover clients, blind to the genius, slyly happy with the deal, yet ill at ease, somehow uncomfortable around my hobo friend, he oblivious, never bothers to count the cash, scion to one who knows the biz, Patriarch and Patrons all know this gallery game, but suddenly it dawns surprising me, my friend knows more though chips so few, hardly enough to stack, he still loves the art, hasn’t yet bought in. - K.B. Savannah 2001