The poet leaves, but returns days later to find the sardines gone from the painting. He leaves again, goes home and, thinking about the color orange, composes. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, no lines. Then another page.
Days go by.
It is even in prose. I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven't mentioned orange yet. It's twelve poems. There is something I don't know that I am supposed to know.