there is no chandelier, but there should be.
the paintings are all in place, mementoes too-
fourteen countries can be found in this room,
where two ordinary people sit refusing
to meet each other’s eyes.
a man in a faded tweed coat is making love
to his guitar. alcohol and smoke bring tears
and confessions to his listeners. she is draped
over a chaise lounge with paisley upholstery –
a blue street in ankara holds her total attention.
a study of four apples and single grapefruit,
stilling the life of a thin, thinly-mustached lad
in a green silk shirt. he counts them, four-one,
one-four, four-one, afraid to stop and audit
instead his fading lies.
watercolour crows watch the proceedings
with cold regard. when the last chord
is plucked, two pairs of eyes lift their heavy lids
and look at the old musician, meeting,
unwittingly in his sightless gaze.