Guest AppraiserBy Charles Redner 

My wife’s painting of a battered red truck

proudly hangs in her art society’s gallery

where a class, currently in session,

is painting a female model.

The artists appear at ease,

checking proportions, brushes at arm’s length,

splashing moistened pigments on canvas.

This is their norm.

But oh, so new to me.

I shift my eyes from the wall

where my wife’s painting  

has been judged honorable.

Desirous to better view the model,

I shift my eyes hard, hard as possible,

as a head turn, would be obvious.

Obvious to the model, the class, my wife.

But the eyes shift

does not accomplish—a look.

A look—a nonchalant glance.

You know, nonchalantly.

Wife gazes at me for appraisal of her work.

I study it now for the first, nod approvingly.

Voice has deserted the vocal cords.

She turns to leave, turns the wrong way.

Do I pirouette in the same direction?

Or accidently turn toward—

Did I mention—there’s a model?

A naked,

unencumbered by clothes,

beautiful, young lady

posing less than a fallen easel away.

I turn, having appraised and follow my wife out the door.