“I love this building in the autumn”
he says
His thumb is smeared
in a brown-orange glow
I am buying bread
and catching the bus
almost trip
on the easel leg
and his Safeway bag of dark
obscured possessions
his stub pencils
slowly sew a skin around
faint spindle bones
roughed earlier in gray
the building facade is a patient sitter
half made across the paper
“Have you drawn this one before?”
I ask
“Same time yesterday”
he says
coaxing shadows from the awnings
with an index finger
“think I’m a bit more welcome today
sometimes it’s like they have their backs turned”
I am taken by the glare off the chrome
a half bicycle leaned against a shop window
not there in the street
but he has felt to put it in
“In 76 I used to live just over, behind,
and that bike was always there,
a bit of licence,” he winks
A woman breaks her walk-and-talk
and gestures with a pointed finger:
“I know you,
you drew my house,
a couple of years ago,
the Williamstown house, do you remember?
it was a period house”
his shoulders struggle with the question
“anyway, I’d love you to come and do the new one,
over in Brighton,
do you have, like, a catalogue or something,
I can show my husband?”
his hands fold into his pockets
and seem to be rifling through drawers
my bus comes
she snaps a slick card from her Gucci
and returns to her phone
my bus goes
and now I have all afternoon
© Brendan Bonsack
April 2016