Rosalie

Paintings are my scene, museums have a lonely grace, sometimes you hear screams, stare at a catalogue tome, quality that's not great, face redder than a boat, the world gives us steam, not just a summer palace, gas fired winter dreams, how often do I drone. hoping for you to relate, the breadth of our zones, you are like Monet, before his great fame, silent fountain sunlit lake, unshaven waiters moan, bring cognac to our table wanting this cafe' to close, sling my jewelled frame.