On “The Joy of Painting,” at 3 A.M., Bob Ross Promises Anyone Can Do This

Bob Ross’s sky is Prussian blue,

whisked to candescence

with his hardware-store brush.

Bob Ross murmurs and soothes

in a mountain. Gently

attests to the nature

of contrast—

the necessary tension

of dark and light.

If Bob paints one tree

he always paints another:

needle-flocked firs shouldered

up like kindred.

When he talks to himself, Bob goes

by Bobby—name he was given

in childhood or love.

Bob Ross had a wife.

She died of cancer.

Bob swathes his rock ridge

in titanium snow. Eases

a pond into its valley.

Where he stipples mist,

it’s merely suggestion.

Bob cuts in like a hush

and puts up a cabin. Shows us how

he’d like to live.