Burger King Bob Ross

he’s a vague twentysomething lookalike,
just spitting distance from the spitting image,
but it’s fun to pretend he’s the real thing,
with his waves of chestnut curls
spiraled around his face,
illuminated from within by a contented grin,
as he flips burgers,
wielding a frying pan deftly
as though it were a paintbrush,
beatifically admiring his canvas,
highlighting the grass of paintknifed green smears
with a touch of blue,
making a river
where there was none before,
a deer
with expert daubs of gold and tan,
the lettuce, sesame seed buns, tomatoes,
cheese, and beef,
are packaged masterfully,
art in a brown bag,
paper-thin and crinkly,
with brushstrokes of grease,
and ketchup packets thrown inside
in dashes.

we drive off with Bob’s latest masterpiece
drawn with loving care
in just an instant,
with the flick of a wrist.

with a palette,
even of premade ingredients,
we can be our own artists,
using unique gifts of sight,
each perspective an artistic vision,
to find enlightenment
in the everyday.

there’s been many a doomsday prophet,
but how many are there
who simply celebrate
the time and life they’re given,
like Bob Ross,
who works at Burger King?