Home is where the art is

I knew just where I was
this time yesterday -

the old familiar smells
of linseed turps and oils,

sounds of easels dragging
over dusty floorboards -

clips klinking, restraining
paper on drawing boards,

the scratch and scrape of
charcoal on cold-press, and

my kind of people, buzzing...
hush, consider the model,

a young guy, slim, long-
haired, cute with Lennon

specs and aquiline nose -
just my type in a former life,

Five years since I last used
conte - now back to black,

smudged on grey - what an
artist's dream was Amy...

the boy-tutor hovers - I show
him my knackered hands,

tell him I daren't stay long
mustn't make them worse -

tentative at first, then better
and stronger and into it now

so how can I leave - just a
quick one before the break,

a few minutes to chat and
peek at others' work, it's all so

familiar - I can't go yet, I have
to stay, this always happens -

to hell with my hands and my
back, I'm all adrenaline now -

a new friend tells me she used
to teach - me too I say - gin and

tonic next week, she whispers,
and we laugh, we're conspirators.

Time called at last, am I really
still here - must get back, spray

the drawings, the can's nearly
empty, but oh yeah, I've still got it -

sod the writing lark, not really
my bag, not my bag at all

Now rest the hands - remember
to buy more fixative for next week,

count down the days, I'll only do an
hour though, not a minute more...