The Painter

His window is just across from mine.
I watch him paint as I write poems.
He knows not that I spy, but secretly
I feel we share a world.

We are artists.

His canvas changes shades,
from gold to indigo, to brilliant red.

Sometimes he smokes.
I light my own cigarette from a candle
And sip perhaps too much white wine.
I lift my hair from my neck, which is warm,
And steal another glance.

The painter never looks my way, but
Sometimes when his lights are dimmed
I envision him behind the glass,
watching me, and feeling the same.

Written May 2001