Painting Poem

He cuts the pattern, makes the shape,
Slides his thumb along the slippery edges,
Folding the lines, colouring the space.
For a sense of familiarity he counts his toes
And feels less than adequate and,
On answering a faceless question,
He stumbles over explanation.
Soon sick of the tricks of the tongue,
He becomes more silent and long moments pass,
Until the habit of hello becomes the thought of a smile,
And the thought of a smile sleeps.

They label his notes in the surgery
With bold black marker pen,
And he finds he has become a disease
And the disease eats him with delicacy
As he and his wife fast consume the contents of
All 'their' pots.

The gods in white suits look down on him and frown
And the Slavic angels refuse him sanctuary.
To them he is nothing but beating heart.
Throbbing vein.
Naked flesh and bone.
Body lost soul.

But among the spongy days
There are liquid moments
Fluent and loud and
In his mind's blind eye
He shouts,
“I am a Philosopher, a Lover
A Home Builder, a Father
A Gardener, a Times Reader,
A Tool Maker
A Cheese Eater,
A Sugar-Free Tea Drinker
A Car Mender, a Map Searcher
A Holiday Finder,
A Money Provider,
A Husband, a Brother,
A Wine Taster,
A Proud, Strong, Loyal,
Clever, Fierce Protector”.

Why don't you see Me?
There was a Me once.