Art. Class

The Polish landlady has a look that can see you are not married,
You are not Mr and Mrs Smith.

Sitting cigarette in hand, peering through the smoke, eyes narrowed
Seeing the line which needs to be traced where the light falls.
The ability to perceive one perfect line;
The one that glows and thrums,
The one that sees velvet not polyester

Glows with its self-worth; knows that it is the true line,
The true line that dips and sweeps along her back,
Picked out by the yellowing September light as it spills from the leaded casement
                                    window onto her red velvet dress.
I pray for one more word from her, just one. She does not turn to look at me;
Instead she looks to the window; studying her own face in the glass
She does not see the frost on the grass below.
I want to hold her one more time, just one.
To hold the soft body that holds the hard heart.
My cigarette has burned down, I take one last drag, stub it out on the china ashtray.
I look down at my hands. Rough hands.

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