Maybe he was no good at maths at school,
indifferent to algebra, impatient with geometry
that favoured straight lines.
Maybe he infuriated his teachers when he grew
tired of the symmetry others sought.
When he was free of convention he let an
eye slide down a face, exploded an embrace.
Maybe he played jokes on us: art does not
always need to be heavy or serious.
Maybe he became intoxicated with the disorder,
the drama of colour and fluidity of shape.
Maybe the leaving behind the blue…
and different women, was just a part of
his becoming selfish, himself, Picasso.