Wednesday, April 22, 2015

on the wing

Passing Time 

Damon draws my coffee Thursday
afternoons, leaves a hat band of white
space at the top for cream, dashes off
the galaxy of a cookie to balance
this still life.  Sometimes he adds a yawning

wing back chair in the lower left hand
corner, yellow, straight from the tube
that appears to float in space between
a scumble of rug and gunmetal smudge

passing overhead, framed in skylight
panes, March toning pages of a book
lovingly rendered in the rough
sketch of my hands, enameled
medallions of reading glasses fixing

two languid women printing fat
slices of blood orange on stem ware
blue-tipped match heads of students
flaring here and there, a docent

dozing on his break, tight smile of blue
blazer beholding the rise and fall
of a vast landscape, time passing
even for the Van Gogh waiting  
for me upstairs, deep veins clogged

with wet pigment, passing time
on a wall still waiting for a cure
spending what’s left of mine waltzing
a gaze across William Merritt Chase

himself, forever emerging from shadow
snowy petals of a flower fresh in his lapel
eyes piercing above the great outstretched
wings of moustache, searching my face
in the final moments before flight. 

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