The room is alive
a haven of calm repose
awaiting the artist’s arrival
The bedstead
stands ready
the ultimate refuge
sheets washed in morning dew
scraped carefully
from the petals of sunflowers
in the early morning hours
just before dawn
with buttery soft pillows
ready to cushion the hot-headed painter
when he finally comes home
The green shutters
close out the night’s
screaming-bright stars
blocking the café’s
sickly greenish light
promising rest
The chairs
are waiting in suspended animation
for the arrival of their paint-stained friend
they are not rooted in the rose petal floor
and if he’s late, they may begin to pace
from wall to wall in impatient expectation
The table
stands a little stiffer than the chairs
keeping a flat top
it holds as much as it can
The mirror
watches with a blank stare
The towel
hangs
While, on a whitewashed
wall above the bedstead
where one might expect
to find a somber crucifix
a truncated Tree of Life
sprouts again