The wall that is bare
in our bedroom
is a painting all its
own.
Someone made the effort
to submerge their brush in
Behr, smooth out every
stroke, proclaim beige
was a matter of
choice, out of every single
colour in the spectrum,
foreseeing that we’d be
wowed, by this minimal
masterpiece, discard our Andy
Warhol to the Value Village
bag , moan that we are sick
of Campbell’s soup,
that it was just
another knock-off
someone scrapped on
garbage day.
I look for their initials
in the corner, say it’s hidden
by our dresser, the one on which
I lay a pair of socks,
say it’s just as good as Shulman,
boast I save the planet—
eschewing carbon shipping
from Czech Republic.
And as for your friend
at the market, the one I feign
I never see,
who hawks her sketches
from a stall, I’ll explain
that we are tapped,
that everything is worked
into our rent,
that one day
we’ll have her over,
and the three of us
will stand beside the
blinds, putting her to
shame, inhale the
tour de force
we’ve been bestowed.
Andreas Gripp
January 28, 2025
Igor Shulman
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