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Reflected afternoon light is streaming Through the paper thin curtains of our room. Radio playing scratchy, whispering Jazzy bebop, wordless scat. The room is tiny, over-filled and bursting. I am sweating - there's not a breeze to catch. (We hocked the fan - you needed siena) You barefoot, in a slip, not sweating a bit, At your wall, painting, delicate smudge at the end of your nose. Me kind of watching, as I often do. (When you gonna use that brown?) Me glancing at that expensive pen in my box The one you got me for my birthday Waiting for its chance to scratch my perfect copy. (We hocked the typewriter - I needed shoes for a job interview) Outside on a ledge the pigeons are cooing, On my page, the lovers in a play are not. Thinking perhaps I need a break. (I really love to watch you paint) That passionate fierce look of concentration- The standing, with hands on hips, like a living question mark- The darting, dabbing, rubbing, blending. Outside the car horns are honking The drivers like geese with somewhere to go. I look around at The canvases, the papers, the paint tubes, the pencils, the books, the brushes, The ideas, the thoughts, the dreams- Like heaven on earth. (Or at least heaven like I would have it be) A certain oppression leaves the air As the sun slides behind a building. I notice a tiredness in your shoulders And I have done plenty of paper scratching today. (A certain combination of movements by you captures my attention) Ever so slightly, a breeze slips through the curtains. Putting aside my latest comedy And crumpling a discarded page, I toss it gently And bounce it off your butt. It falls and adds to the floor's detritus. The look of surprise on your face is priceless. "Hey, you wanna make love?" |