AN INNER ART.

AN ARTIST INWARDLY PAINTS A GIRL NEARBY.

Elisheva pinned back
her hair, her thick lens
glasses enlarged her eyes,
she eyed her lips
fresh red lips ticked.

She pressed
her lips together
as she’d seen
her mother do
to spread the red.

She put away
her makeup case,
clipped up her bag.

Tuviya took in
her plump frame,
his eyes wandered over
the tight jeans and top.

She had ordered
latte and cake.
The counter girl,
thin and pale,
took money
and tilled away.  

He followed her
as she walked
to a table
in the corner
where another sat,
a female of older years,
plump but not fat.  

Elisheva mouthed words,
gestured with hands.

Tuviya studied her
with an artist’s eye,
took in fingers, nails,
gestures and moving lips.

Imagined her
in his studio,
the sharp light,
the battered sofa
holding her frame,
her hands in lap,
her naked breasts
like piglets
in deep sleep.

A girl served Elisheva
her drink and cake,
then walked away.

Tuviya drank
his Americano,
his eyes moving over
Elisheva’s moving hands
and lips, the taking
of the latte and cake,
red lips opening
and closing
like fish on land.

He painted her
on his mind’s canvas,
set her down
with inner eye,
shaded in
the dull beyond,
filled in
with inward paints
her outer being
as he saw.

He could have
snapped her
with his Smartphone
camera, captured
in the state of now,
but it may have
spoilt it all,
he thought,
somehow.

She licked her fingers,
removing crumbs
and cream of cake,
mouthing each one.

He smiled,
imagined another game,
which she’d not play,
he thought,
least not here
and now in this cafe.

She talked on,
her fingers clean,
the dampness shining
in the overhead lights.

Tuviya closed up
the studio in his mind,
put away
the inner paints,
the canvas set aside,
she on the inner artwork,
on battered sofa,
legs spread wide.