Tête-à-tête with a Ceramic Bust

We know each other well Mr. Homer and I We spend half our days together In a lock-down stare My pencil traces his every slightest variation Crawling the contours of his face Like an insect on a leaf I’m fixated on the swirls Of his ample beard and the terrain Of his age-sagging skin Decades of art classes have been in my place Lost in the repeated mechanics of their drawing arms Etching out a face on paper White turns to grey Like watching grass grow My bleary eyes droop and his face distorts You can only stare at a thing so long before Nose becomes lines Eyes become shadow I only see shapes Then shapes become face My sketch is pressed flat Preserved like a saved rose Until next week, dear Mr. Homer.