Still Life

"On the window sill
the sun’s pure gold today.
Usually it’s white,"
says drooling Nell,
in her hospital smock,

her tea turning cold
as she braids
ram horns of hair
high and tight

to the sides of her skull.
"On gold days
like this, I warm
my hands for hours
on this sill.

"Yesterday, the doctor said
someone should paint me,
the fool. A still life,
that’s what he said."

The man on the radio says it is a beautiful night out there

It’s a square room. There’s always more to the picture than meets
the story; more to a smile than glossy lips, intentionally exposed
bra straps and ice-cold fresh wet martinis. We imagine there are
corners; rounded, sharp or hidden. We imagine blind intersections,
imagine the person next to us making small talk knows when to hit
the brakes. We hit the skids, we circle the square room. Find where
we’re made; who we’re made to make it with. Imagine a slow wind
crashes the party, imagine we don’t want to get lucky; that we mint
our own luck. Imagine there’s more to our story than this picture.

The man on the radio laughs because the man
on the radio fucks a model too

If this were a screenplay there would be a slight break in the action;
time for a little narrative exposition. Time to make the scene some-
thing right out of a movie; complete with neo-noir dialogue, a verite’
look and killer soundtrack. If this were anything but what it really is
it might not be artificial; it would be colored inside the lines, names
redacted. This is the last leg we will stand on before the credits roll
us over: Me wondering where the hell I went; you, all blearing eyed
and wet, waiting for another chance to reshoot the final scene.