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He does not paint, for knows not what to paint.

To know he looks inside but he loses

the fix, his fix.

It leaves him as soon as he starts

Then it was there and now it is here

He knows where to place his blame, his guilt

He sits and is not rushed

The path unwinds for him

He steps on the first brick and clicks

his jeweled shoe.

And he yearns for the next brick

But too quickly it becomes intolerable

Instead now he floats and he drifts

and feels no weight

No pull at all in the crowded space of his mind

No pull at all, he thinks and he thinks

Meanwhile calling himself a painter

The canvas barely stands, bare

He thinks perhaps it is not such a bore,

this peace of him that hangs, bland.

It sits there, or it stands there?

Will he choose to lose his place to think?

Where he can splash and plaster it full,

so full it looks empty

and flat.

And still, untroubled,

appearing unmoved,

He does not paint, for he knows not what to paint.

- 22 September 2012

- Sarah Ketema

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