For years, Paul inhaled the freshness of fruit
while stacking Romes and Fujis
at his miniature doorways to the Louvre,
oriented red, yellow, and green peppers
to highlight their sensuous human curves
as his mind snapped black-and-white
glossy photographs for exhibition at the Met,
arranged clusters of glistening grapes
beside a bottle of burgundy and plate of brie
on the table in his studio without windows.
At lunchtime, he tears a few leaves
from a lightly misted head of Romaine,
rinses off some organic cherry tomatoes
and gently wipes down a waxy cucumber.
Nineteen years of working in that gallery
built habits he simply couldn’t change
when they painted a new sign over the door
he walked through for the last time
the day they terminated his guided tours
through the neighborhood grocery store.
