Submerged Relics

Philip C. Curtis lives alone
An invisible house, once a stable
A dusty Scottsdale road
Pale, frail, sick
A ghost
His easel is set up in a light-filled room
A wooden bar apparatus allows his halting hand to rest
Applying pigment to a disturbed world
A nurse comes each day to administer medicine
"She's here," he says, annoyed
Bothered by the inconvenience and failing body
He excuses himself
The reporter snoops around the house
Peaks in his bedroom, musty, messy, old
Imposing himself upon the artist's private bathroom
Underwear soaks in the sink, surreal
Submerged relics to prove his mortality and loneliness

© Poem Fix 2012
Image: Tub at Sea, Philip C. Curtis, 

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