Lisa paints
like I want to write
passionately
colorfully
in imaginative detail
with soul bearing confidence
with bittersweet honesty
and when she stands
before the canvas
with Haydn playing
in the background
it is then you know
that there’s no turning back
she takes no prisoners
or so I think, as I watch her
on this particular day
when it is raining outside
and we are stuck
in that tiny apartment in Miami
the one we rented out of desperation
after the foreclosure
and she’s wearing the smock
that I bought for her at Target
for Christmas
the powder blue one
with the four big pockets
for her artist stuff
but it is smattered now
with misplaced paint:
Titanium White
Burt Rose
Radiant Violet
Tree Sap Green
Bee sting Yellow
“don’t move” she says coldly
as she adjusts the blinds
I’m drinking bourbon in the nude
tired and tortured in an ugly little room
in a miserable part of town
Prussian Green
Cobalt Tourquoise
Winsor Emerald
Vandyke Brown
she snaps on a light
I soak in its radiance
I’m grateful for the heat
the minutes crawl by
while
Lisa paints.