Vincent Van Gogh is embracing her thick as tree trunk legs, from toe tips to thigh tops.
Stopped at a red light, from my car I watch as she walks across the street, slow, determined steps. Short of stature and of hair.
Mischievously smiling to myself, I wonder about Vincent’s reaction to this appropriation. His stars and his steeple now envelop her fashionably feminine butt.
From where I sit, and I confess a bit macabre, enough to cut off another ear with such madness.