Alice Blue

by Amy Soricelli

The artist sits at the desk with a cup perhaps, a chipped plate -
and goes about mixing his paint -swirling up the blank walls and spare rug
fluffing up his Robins Egg mind with Aquamarine and Cerulean.
His wife sets the hot tea in a glass by his small settling of
Dodger and Ultramarine and glances quick snappish looks at the spots of Royal
and Persian that are jarred tight by the window.
She thinks -she does, (being the wife of an artist)
that she can offer some Royal or Indigo and then maybe Steel -
sway away the routine he has -the way he dips the ends
in the water - the way he holds his brush.
He's on Cyan now - poking the ends of canvas jabbing almost -
small angry flowers - she can't see from her angle but there
is no Periwinkle or Cornflower- his eyes digesting hard on Navy -
stern and angry.
She would be better listening to the sound of that car with its 'down the street' music
getting smaller and lighter- make some eggs and watch the news
then question his lack of appreciation for Cobalt or Sapphire.