Poem: Tim J Brennan

the other night

you were talking
from across the room
i was listening,

i swear, but observed
instead, your bare wrist
extended, holding
that lovely right hand

at that exact moment
you became the oil
painting i’ve always wished
to perch before in a quiet place,
pondering its purpose

you could have been speaking
about tomorrow’s dinner or
the unopened rye bread
on our white kitchen linen
instead, i saw only
the symmetry

sometimes words
are not necessary

only my time lacks
understanding as to
what it all means