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You Ask Me What I think of Your Painting.

A sickly green. A cowardly yellow. An intimidating red.
I'm imagining how this world would look
to someone suddenly un-blinded.
As usual, I say the wrong thing.
But later you call and I concede, lying my way
out of art critic into prospective lover.
I should agonize less over results from now on.
Better to take up with inspiration.
I'll admire a woman's free verse in advance.
I'll hum her songs even before I hear them.
I'll turn one chapter of her heavy prose
into a book of light but learned reading.
Or, better yet, I'll abandon the art world for the real one.
Christine's office manager gives her a sparkling review.
I'll bathe in the shine. I'll even tell love
to keep up the good work.
And, of course, I always hide my stuff from interested eyes.
I write for the disinterested.
When nothing's at stake, greens can drip,
yellows take flight, reds come out swinging.
Who we really are ought not to interfere
with how we wish to be perceived.
So you stare at your canvas. I'll read my poem.
We'll meet at Starbucks at seven.

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