Friday 26 November 2010

#13: Easel Sadness

Adjusting his beret,
the painter gave a flamboyant sigh
and kissed his painting of a wife.

Catching his reflection in the window,
he saw the streaks of red and yellow
on his smock

and reflected
that he looked rather like a baby
after breakfast time.

Then he realised
he was looking at a painting of a baby
and the window was behind him.

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