poem: delusional man

I am not so good at this, she says: the creaking of her hands

being wheeled behind her head, and the gears

pulling a smile taunt over

her too-life-like face, the blue eyes put flat

above wavy almond hair, the color of it

perfect inspiration, a lucky miracle that comes

from the painter staring

outside and watching almond trees bite

the windowpanes,

just as his daughter comes running into the room

saying daddy daddy look at me

and he thinks, oh yes.

look at you.

Little does he know that she

is already quite captured, staring out at him

through the mechanics,

thinking daddy daddy

I am all false. I am

just paint.

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