The Studio

Sitting in a master’s studio

I can feel his energy,

His musings,

His art-making in the air

The atmosphere here feels thicker

Like gelatin

I can imagine if I had the right lenses,

I could see its shifting colors and light rays

Did he ever cry here, in frustration?

Did he laugh and talk to himself,

As I do when I create?

Did he ever wish that he saw more of himself

In his work?

The brown wooden chair at the easel is black

Where his arms rested and where his shoulders rested

The wood floor is dulled by scars and slices:

Evidence that his art work was not painless

Even for his studio

The bookshelves bustle, bright bindings

Colors faded now, yet still busting bright

With conversations between Degas, Renior, Rembrandt,

Van Eyck, Van Gogh, and Winslow Homer

Did he only listen to them?

Or did he ever talk back?

Out here is my rest time

My time to daydream sleepily,

Absorbing the aura in a place of genius

I can only hope to leave at the end of the day

With this buzzing, building, inspiring energy

Still soaking into the skin of my brain