19 April 2009

p.a.d. 19 april 2009

The Painter

The white flag you see
behind his head
is just a foil. The
delinquent girls, they
take their clothes off and pose
in black stockings with lipstick too red.
When it's over, they crawl to him,
wide-eyed, holding their breaths,
waiting for his blessing. Or at least
a kiss. No one ever expects
the scorn in his brown eyes,
the disgusted tilt of chin,
the twisted shape of his brows.

You might be distracted
by the white flag fluttering
in the background.
You might look at him
from over the curved tops
of your sunglasses
and think you can
change him. You
might think the world
has stifled him with
with bourgeois conservatism.
Surely he has
never been truly loved.

In the background
is a white flag.
Or is it a napkin? A
bandage? You can see it
clearly this morning.
The flag is
a white bird
hovering in the air
over a landfill.
Behind his right shoulder
he has painted in
a bouquet of flowers.
Even the roses
make him angry.

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