I
stand over my sink
Watching
as grey water passes across paint stained metal
My
muse exits in silence
His
drink sat warm on the table
And
I wonder if I will ever see him again, in flesh
His
eternal canvas rests in the easel
Folded
hands in blind judgement
I
wonder if he knows
In
reality or art
Of
the space he leaves behind
The
water runs clear, as I turn his face to the wall
