The Picture in the Room

still hangs in his mind


It’s in the dim lit
halls and winding
turns he no longer
finds his way


And starts instead
from in the room
among the standing
whispers


That fell around her
crouched over on
the bench, a hidden
face in her red
hands


crying from inside
her damp brown hair


Where he walked up
to her and asked,
“Can the painting
really be that bad ?“


As she smudged her
wet dark eyes and
answered, “No, the
painting is that
good.”


And she let him get her
coffee in the gallery
cafe, under the sky lights
as high as a cathedral


But he could never buy
a print of
the small french painting
of the sad ballerina


She would always say,
“It’s a raised moment -
outside time. One you
cannot copy.”


So he remained unable
to replicate the picture


Of the young girl
crouched over on the bench
with wet dark eyes
crying from inside
her damp brown hair