Molly Maroon,
Locked in a room,
Watches the painted floor dry.
She stares and she stares
With unblinking eyes,
Satisfying a smiling
Shadow’s belies.
A curdling pool,
Darkening with day;
Wafting wet iron—
A lovely display.
A feast of a portrait
For a gluttonous gaze.
Dazed as she is,
She speaks softly—
Squeaks softly;
Bubbles and blurts
Out rosy bouquets.
Her artist sardonically,
Nods and grins coldly—
Lackadaisically — and playfully
At her guttural praise.
Hot red and maroon—
Luke warm rust—
To cold tar.
Molly’s eyes follow
Her artist
Back home in a jar.