Today’s prompt was to write about living with a painting. As I don’t own a painting, I decided to improvise… The painting I wrote about is Van Gogh’s Poppy Flowers, stolen in 2010.

I could say that property is theft.

I could say that possession is – well, you know.

I could point out that it used to live

on the wall of a man who rarely glanced at it.

Now it’s here. 

It hangs on stale anaglypta,

above a glass table for a telephone

that never rings.  Sometimes I sit on the

stairs for a full hour and just look.

The yellow petals shine out of the canvas

like firelight.  That glow could

be a sunset or it could be embers –

somebody’s life going up.  Whoosh.

Two red poppies hang, as if they’re

trying to escape.  Perhaps they are.

If you look at something for long enough

you feel like you’re falling into it.

A few flowers lie forgotten on the table,

a red halo around them.  Someone’s

reminder.  Memento mori. 

There was nothing on the wall before,

except disappointment. 

Now there’s a painting.

If they come for it I won’t answer.