Why I Am Not A Painter

this man                 you'll forget
after the hor'douvres
like stars are swallowed
in dark folds, silk moving slow like glitter
tornadoes in two-liter bottles. tonight
you are the eye. the man looks
limply at you from beside
the painting you constructed. you think
he must be vacant now,
this man,                 but he recollects
your hair, it was shorter,
ankles, swinging, from tall
chairs, under the cuffs of
                                   rolled-up jeans.
the two of you are heavy like cinnamon
sediment inside of hot apple cider.
the women sip wine, and you
desire to run up to them and tip their glasses
onto each thousand dollar dress. instead
you slip into a corner
of the room, like you are in the painting, sitting in a
wooden chair, your heels lodged under
your knees in a skirt long enough to hide
black underwear, under that
black skirt, the black
notebook in your lap,
the black cat 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 his eye 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.