Why I Am Not A Painter

this man                 you'll forget
after the hor'douvres have been sent
to your stomach and the stomaches
of others
adorned in silk, swirling like tornadoes
made inside crystal two-liter bottles. you
are the eye. the man looks
limply at you from beside the famous 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
desire to run up to every attractive woman
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, with your heels lodged under your
knees in a skirt long enough to hide
your black underwear, painted in
a layer underneath that 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.