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.