Caffiene

He called it
coffee table artwork,
illustrations of a bicep
working,
a scarf around a wrist,
wound
contracting at the fixture,
a mixture of his mind
and modern relevance
made a mine that seemed
could be unspent.  
His trousers were soft linen,
eyes, almost beige.
I could consider myself an artist
but the portrayal would pale
in comparison to that
coffee table artwork
and so
I distract myself with window greens,
ignore the simple hues of his
slanted nose and thumbnails almost aether
and we
make petty conversation about the shape of someone's genes,
make up of old wounds,
and heaps of healing time.  
I recall my mother's mouth wrapped around some anecdote he bleeds,  
make tea,
he reads
something off the shelf,
a bird flaps off,
it's wingspan beats against my eardrums
and someone leaves a something
on the 'mat.