She stands
In a darkened room
Under a single light
While classic music plays
Just a little too loud

I look on
At her lanky black hair
Whitish-pink skin,
The place where it turns slightly yellow
Above her stomach

That stomach
Potruding just slightly
Out farther then her chest
Uncomfortable
Dead-center

Her face, glassy
Under boredom or depression
Eyes hidden in shadow
Dark, empty sockets
Perhaps it’s just
From the light

My own hands, messy
Heavy with color
Umbers, reds, whites
They form a peeling layer
Slightly toxic

A canvas, mostly grey
Full of muted colors
Pale skin
Protruding stomach
And shadowed eyes

The palette, full
Covered in swirling browns
Blacks and whites
The vibrant colors
Sit on its edges
In small, perfect piles

The brush dips
To cobalt blue
I glance up and try to find it
On the canvas
In the model
And sigh

Maybe with a different model
Or in a different room
A warmer light
I grab paper towel
And begin to clean the brush.