The Waiting Room
In his work I am drawn to the sloping corners
of rooms. At the Yellow House in Arles
sometimes the angles pull up and away
from the eye. A chunky pound coin, let go,
would wheel down the camber. Close to where
the walls and floor meet, it might tip, tripped
by the rough impasto. The floor could be deal,
the grain of it worked with ochre, a bright kind
of green, a purple moving to red at the edge
of the canvas. I visit the galleries often.
The specialist’s letter is still in the future.
The artist is happy. He hopes for the best
though his remaining teeth hurt and the kids
in Arles laugh at him loaded with kit
for painting outdoors. I finger the coin in my pocket.
His mind has only just started to fray
like a hawser tearing itself in the wind.
The postman’s cart rattles over the uneven pavement.
The roots of trees have tilted the flagstones.
If I set the coin to run down the boards this minute
the paint in the corner would still be wet.
We can all smell the linseed, volatile, puzzling.
Whatever is going to happen, hasn’t happened yet.
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