The Bowl of Fruit

Very little is to be said

about a fruit painter.

He stares at me,

and I glare back.

 

He’s looking harder now

just waiting for me to leap up and say:

Here is the face of god! Now paint it!

but I am not god.

 

We are both bored                                    

in this room.

The lights are turned off

And I can’t make out

any of the other drawings

on the wall,

except for one

of a fern.

The only source of light

Is coming from a lamp

that he spent far too long

setting up.

And every so often

he adjusts its angle.

 

At least there is a lone window nearby

and I can tell that it’s late in the night

even though the sky is dimly lit.

There must be a full moon,

but I can’t see it from here.

I think he’s looking out the window now too;

his face looks as expressionless as mine.