Why I Am Not A Painter

a man walks into the room. he has hair
the color of hair you are familiar with,
when he smiles, teeth bent
into the arch of a mouth you know,
like your own. it is not recognizable
when you shake his hand; it has been
a long time since you kissed him, and if
you kissed him, you wonder if the kisses
would be the same kind of kisses. he did
not wear suits when you knew him, and now
he does, or at least he does for social
functions of this sort. you have to stop
holding his hand or you'll risk scaring
yourself.
                 this man                you'll forget
after the hor'douvres have
been sent to your stomach and others
adorned in silk. remember those rendevous
with dresses in department stores
to touch them, try them, and then
leave them slack on their plastic hangers? the man
looks limply at you from beside that painting you
constructed, and you think he must be
vacant now, but he is recollecting
your hair when it was shorter
and your ankles, swinging from tall chairs,
underneath the cuffs of rolled-up jeans.
                                                                           in the gallery
the two of you are heavy like cinnamon
sediment inside of hot apple cider. the spectators sip wine, and you
have the desire to run up to every attractive woman
and tip their glasses onto each thousand dollar dress
but instead you slip into a corner
of the room, like you are in the painting, sitting in a
wooden chair, with your heels lodged under your
knees in a skirt long enough to hide
your black underwear, painted in
a layer underneath the black skirt, the black
cardboard cover of the notebook sitting in your lap,
the black cat sitting on the book, preventing you
from writing it, or getting up. the man is standing by a window
in the painting, looking outside. the man is staring
at the painting, avoiding himself and missing
that something is there
                                               in the painting. you did not invite
the memory but he is there regardless, eating the cheese
and crackers called something French, he has a handful
while the trays are all empty and shining like the moon.