She's seen the painting before,
been to my place before,
waited for me to change clothes
and absently tripped her finger along the spines of my books
like a stick along a fence,
but never once acknowledged this painting.
But tonight it's snowing,
as she likes to say
and suddenly the painting has begun to glow
right along with us.
At one point,
as I explain that I'm really not much of a painter,
she tells me that she'd like to buy it;
if only I'd change this one thing.
When I tell her I think it's fine the way it is,
I can tell she's impressed.
She thinks she's stumbled upon a real artist
and so we keep on getting impressed,
the two of us chewing on our teeth
the rest of the night.
In the morning the painting looks different,
it sits there stoic,
like a tree sometimes looks,
after a dog's pissed on it.