Round Midnight

It is the unexpected life raft of Jack Vettriano -
into which I gratefully climb this afternoon-
and wring the monotony of the hour
from my saturated self.

She is sitting on the edge of the bed,
in the darkness, her back turned,
soft gas light exposing, warming and enriching
the flesh of her arms, shoulders and back.

The full curvature of her waist and hips,
accentuated and magnified
by the shimmering fearful complexity
of her lingerie.

He is backlit by a cold moon,
framed by the leaded rectangles of the window.
A dapper, double-breasted silhouette
of masculine anonymity.

I feel my flesh and bones melt to oil.
A somewhat muted shade I think.
I penetrate the glass
and take my place on the canvass.

I become the arrow splitting the heart,
tattooed low on her hip.

My unseen portrait stares out from his wallet
as he fumbles inside.

Or maybe I am their warm breath,
becoming tiny beads of dew,
forming on the inside of the window pane.

No. I am that thin thread vein capillary
of platinum cigarette smoke,
that rises from her hand into the air
like the fading scent of her perfume.