Clouds on Your Floor
I dipped my finger in
the thought-dormant bright colors
of my permeating oil paints
even their containers were lovely
I used them like watercolors
they made tickling patterns
down the thin skin of my wrist
as I painted
used my fingers
as the fine hairs of a brush
I twisted pictures
onto the blank white of you
which I had imagined as
empty and just waiting for someone
to fill them with a
constant overflowing ambition like mine
rich and thick and abundant
with my fine lines of
azure and rose and mauve
I exhausted myself with entertaining you
I sat on my heels and stroked
clouds on your floors when I had to,
when I was too tired for sending them higher
But you sat back as if you were
eighty years old and these things were
as good to you as the brown carpet
stained with your slow sloth
You nodded to me as if I were a little girl
with crayon creations of miscolored ponies
as if the worlds inside my head were
things you had hovered over idly before
and not noticed anything brilliant
or unusual at all
in their complete eclipsing of you