On Display

I’ve been working late with paints and canvas in a glass house,
Burning the midnight oil,
Mostly not getting the two nosesharp tars confused.
The walls keep the fumes in,
Let the light out. Anyone
Could walk by and see the arcs and spatters and gashes
Created where the light meets the paint,
The work of my hands’ suggestions broadcast in all directions.
But I haven’t invited anyone over.
There’s no grand opening yet.

When she turns the key I gave her almost a decade ago
And pads softly into my lonely studio,
The preview gallery,
And tells me she didn’t think I’d been painting like this,
I wonder which part she means.
The colors? The subject? The way they both spill off onto the floor and
Fill up the whole cased-off space?
I realize all at once
That she may be the first new set of eyes
To see me at work,
Aside from the owls passing overhead in the still night.

I wonder what she sees,
But I do not have the words to ask,
So I put my paintbrush down to crust over unattended
And lock the glass door
And walk with her into the cool, unpaintable black.