Still Life

You are not going to find
a bowl of fruit, a complication
of shapes and color, to sit
on the table near the window
where light and shadow
can track across them.
This is a bachelor’s home,
a servile place, pedestrian;
bowls of fruit and vases stuffed
with greeny grasses and bright
shocks of color are not its world.
I don’t even have a can of soup
on the pantry shelf, nothing
I can set in its place, in its light,
in its moment, and catch in my art.
The dog as always is spread
on the floor beside the chair—
or is he disqualified, what
with his legs sometimes twitching
like he’s chasing rabbits
in a happy dream, or because
his tail wags, usually just the once,
as though letting me know from
time to time that he’s with me?