A Bowl of Fruit Still Life by Sy Roth
A Bowl of Fruit Still Life
by Sy Roth
They watched without segue.
Longing to understand the idleness,
continuous gazing at a waxen bowl of fruit
tantalizing, they clung to it like lichen
on the underside side of an ancient oak,
like barnacles on the underbelly of a ship
awaiting a keel hauling.
I dared an idle life—
a blushing-red, waxen apple resting atop
bananas, pears, and globular grapes
in quiet hours of an armchair by a window facing a western sun,
I sat while the juicy, tangerine-soft rustle of grasses
mamboed on a sirocco wind.
Cochlear serenity settled in
indolence writing a silly book
swirling in the brackish waters of their existence—
as I, rotund Macintosh, rest niggardly
and escape away from their dithyramb.
They Google frantically—
add apps to their already long playlist of useless ventures,
have spirited debates about my latitude and longitude.
They bide their time awaiting their own frenzied End,
As I revel in my indolence.
They die in their fashion astride fictitious, snorting steeds,
backs bent toothier faux labor,
arms laden with Sancho Panza spears tilted downward.
And I dwell in my own painting, red-ochre in lethargy.
Their frenetic activities justify their existence.
Firehouse-red exit arrows guide their exigencies
while I, un-bored, rest in benign pleasure
Confused by an un-need for their trilling loons.
A blue, velvet drape of Victorian-prim frames the bowl where I rest.
Mindful of their confusion, I settle into my page-turning frenzy of non-activity.
Beneath a rainbow sky, cloudless,
crammed with endless non-thoughts painted on the rime of
morning mist that guides my exit.
Sy Roth © 2015