Laying on your bed while you paint

by Grant Morgan

I lay on your bed

Listening to (___) tell a mob of jackals about his empty wine bottles, that mean so much.

It’s warm though my toes are cold.

My blood is thin.

I can hear your brush moving over the piece of wood you’ve chosen.

Its portraits you so often paint.

Your lines sometimes giving them their loneliness

your colours sometimes making them loved;

In your strokes I wait.