In garret lofts poor artists have quite often <br />painted women bathing, combing hair <br />inside a nearby mirror ... Your eyes soften, <br />and, pale as blossoms or flesh from a pear, <br />your skin glints in the light. Snow falls outside <br />amid the greyness and the winter cold, <br />yet this one moment it is warm inside. <br /> <br />Crouched in the slipper tub, you sit and hold <br />your sprawling hair in your right hand, and comb <br />it with your left. You smile, sing to yourself, <br />and in the glass see pennies on the shelf, <br />a garret-loft too bare to be your home. <br />And I see what those starving artists see <br />and try to catch it for eternity.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garrett-loft/
