by Marge Simon
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.