Idle hands

Idle hands

My idle hand rests upon a paintbrush,
Poised in mid-air,
And around me the heady smell of turps and linseed lingers.
I have reached a block.
In front of me my composition rests, half finished and neglected.
Perhaps I should leave it at that.
I could call it “half finished.”
Worse has been done.
With my other hand I brush a strand of hair from my eyes
And reach for my water bottle.
Outside it is raining
And I am more interested in the droplets running down the window
Than the painting,
Half finished,
In front of me.
Yet to finish it requires work.
And I would rather sit here and stare at the rain
And smell the linseed,
And sip my water,
And brush the hair out my eyes,
Than complete this work.
I would rather sit idle.