Good artists copy

The Leonardo on his wall
Is not a print he bought online.
He made it, stroke by matching stroke,
On painful summer weekends, lying
Prone upon tatami mats
He’d brought with him from Tokyo,
Exchanging all the Hokusai
He’d painted in his patio,
Upright, on easels he had sculpted
à la Rodin, through the night.
They asked him when he’d make his own.
He told them off. He never might.