THE WRITER IN GREY
by
T for Travelling Timothy
He doesn't like it when I yawn
He doesn't like it when my eyes are open
He likes it when I lie there
While he paints or sketches me
with my grey eyes closed
my clothes on the floor
He likes the idea of me
Though he doesn't like me
He doesn't like my words
but he likes what I write
He reads the words with a smile
But looks at me with sorrow
I lie on his couchand he draws me in grey
naked and alive
with my mind on other things
He doesn't like it when I laugh
He doesn't like it when I move
He likes it when I think
about poetry and Rimbaud
when I lie there silent, alone and naked
his thumb is wide and vast
He has truth on his side and art in his actions
some think he is controlling
with me being the controlled
But it's never for very long
and he gives me the space
for thinking and writing the words
that he likes so much
and I still sit watching him watching me
and he finishes another portrait
of his pet, the writer, in grey.
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