On those mornings each week
at the moment you disembark
My iliopsoas muscles prompt me to rise
and follow your steps—brusque, mincing, delicate—
But I keep my seat
Because this stop is not mine but that of the art school
Where you extend tints and stretch lines
As brusque or delicate as your stride
Just one more stop to the medical district
Where I invoke Kandinsky shapes under a lens
I’d gladly transfer methyls to my catechols
Sculpt my hands to a painter’s refinement
And form myself to your neuroplasticity
Our office tower cradles your studios in their shadow
And you know that help is one trolley stop away
So when your artistic temper flares
And you turn up in our waiting room
I can ponder the chiaroscuro in your eyes
And nod in rhythm with your pulse
Andy Oram
April 28, 2025