Painters in the Dark

You don't know what you want.

I'll tell you what I want.

I want to make love to her,

the green eyed woman

dancing on the bar,

paint her afterward

in rose and indigo.

I know exactly where the lines will fall

as if I've known this painting all my life.

But I'm not allowed to do more

than flip pages of books,

linger over Inge's cool virgins,

pale innocence on

draped scarlet settees.

What's more to share?

Wistful conversations,

dry as Zinfandel,

painters in the dark.

Don't talk about it.

She can't let you in.

She's the night dancer for

a band of 'droid musicians

playing wry hosannas

on plastic.

Should we change virtual bistros?

We're artists, act the part,

that's all we have to do.