She takes me to a gallery; an exhibition: a sale of pictures
and asks which one I should choose.
The paintings are nice.
The colour is good.
The composition fine.
The frames are worth a bob or two.
And as I think of this
passing the abattoir at midnight
a single sheep bleats.
Studies by the sea.
Pastoral scenes in Victorian style:
families grazing on the beach.
I suggest the only painting, that to my eye, contains life
a hurried sketch of a girl of seven,
in a whirl of white dress,
caught between that moment of sandcastle or sea:
tucked into a corner of the wider scene.
And, while she runs through the reasons
of why she will buy a different picture
I think of a camel.
And, the stored fat of the hump:
and her fat arse and thighs.