A dull turquoise, maybe even duck-egg blue, worn and distressed
nestled into an alcove, pushed back to not intrude upon the small room.
What do you hold, what do you conceal? And you fine chair, straw seat
spindly legs and arms, who do you invite, who do you hold?
Passing questions, I hold, as I pass through this room. May I say
an artist’s room? Maybe. But the easel will hold the result. Hold the answers.