Stolen Canvas

Wednesday 21st May, 8:40pm

It's a quiet gallery space
Quieter than the usual hubbub that happens at dusk
with young ones arriving in couples,
etching out some free space for two from the City.

The canvas hung in silent correspondence.
A witness to my lack of originality.

Somehow a stranger had stolen
a painting right out of me.

I stood staring,
amazed, confused, perplexed. Dis. traught.
I stared at my insides spread all across
a tightly-bound-linseed-oiled-36 by forty.

It hurt.
I have been painting this one for years.
In my race to ought-self, I couldn't. But
my painting, it broke free.