Revisionist Poetry – “Painted Doorways”: On the Dream of an Audience – Grand Displays of Imagination, v.7

He paints as if rooms might open—doorways in oil—
a skyline of possible faces leaning toward the canvas.
He pins a postcard on the wall: To whoever will look first.
The moth rehearses applause against the lampshade.

He imagines a woman with a coat that never quite matches the weather,
a child who counts brushstrokes like a secret.
Strangers arrange themselves in his painted aisles—soft murmurs, a held breath—
their clouds of coats converting the cold into attention.

Impostor hisses: “They will not come.” He answers with a window cracked a finger’s width,
a note left on the sill—Exhibit at dusk; bring a small bright thing.
He signs each work as if signing a ticket, folds an invisible program,
leaves the door unlocked in paint and in fact.

Tonight the city might be indifferent; tomorrow might be an entrance.
He keeps the lamp lit like a small announced promise.