The Painter

There is a still life on my table.
Apples, pears, and a clock.
I've come to regard it

As the only fixed thing in the world.
I am its guardian and protector.
Hands have reached for this

Or that, and I have brought them back.
In the absence of me
It would not remain the same.

Although, yes, I must confess
The fruit turned brown
and the clock slowed to a stop.

So I must become my own
Still life by posing myself as The Thinker,
Back arched, head in hand,

On top of those very objects
I once protected. It is difficult
To regard oneself as unchanging

When one is not moving.
But the imagination is infinite
In its tortures.

Also one cannot prevent
Disturbances, even dust fall, when one
Is trying not to achoo.