Dim smiles of twilight slant through the studio window
at sharp angles,
Dusk fading to copper green.
In a room that’s too small
Papers pile high as cathedrals
Scratched with graphite lines.
Old, empty paint tubes litter the floor like autumn leaves
A malodor hangs
of oils
and last night’s dinner.
A giraffe-necked desk lamp gazes at a wooden easel
Where a half-finished painting is perched -
White spaces cry out silently to be.
The rest of the apartment is dark.
On a pull-out sofa as old as the Parthenon
An artist sleeps uneasily.
The television flickers static on his concentrated brow.
In his fingers is
a frayed yellow brush,
The saffron paint drips onto the floor, waiting to become
a starry evening
the downy wing of a bird
the soft dress of a Parisian lady.
Downstairs
An old lady, disappointed at the failure of her life,
Dials the superintendent’s number
To complain about the smell of paint.