Still There

So I'm staring at the corner of the room, and I just can't believe that they have left that sitting there!
Really!
I mean, doesn't anyone else need to use it? The easel I mean.
Don't they need the space it takes up, maybe, for something else?  It's huge.  Takes up the whole corner.
(Crouching back there.)
No, I guess not.

The easel stands in the corner, crouches, I like that word better, still set up as if it enjoys holding an invisible painting.
Ridiculous!


As I'm staring at it's emptiness, I think about the terrible beauty that used to rest there.
The painting:

Before they ever put it on the easel, I used to stare at it.  I had no choice, it was in my line of sight.
(The pregnant belly, the lovely light on her skin, the men shaving her head.  The explosives.)
 It rested on the floor then, leaned on the wall.
Sometimes someone would have turned it  toward the wall.
Sometimes it would stare me down from the heights of my platform in the middle of the room.
 I fell in love with her knees!  I did!

Now the picture is gone, you've stashed it somewhere.
 Or do you look at it?
Does it stare you down?

From across the room, from the height of your platform.

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