Standing Where The Easel Stood Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'Standing Where the Easel Was'




I take the place he chose—
this narrow hinge of street
where yellow gathers itself
and pushes out into the hour.



The tables lean toward the road
as if waiting for a sign
that never quite arrives.
Their surfaces hold a soft heat,
a lingering after talk has thinned.



A waiter moves through the glow
with the calm of someone
who knows the night will keep its shape
no matter who comes or goes.



The stones beneath my feet
carry a worn shine,
a record of countless crossings
that never needed to be written down.



Above, the sky works through its blues—
layered, unsettled, a depth
that refuses to flatten even when lamps
insist on their own field of gold.



I stand here, letting the hour
press lightly against me.
Interpretation not demanded.
Lessons unsolicited.

The scene simmers its own truth:
a corner of the world
left open long enough
for colour to do what it must.



I lift my hand,
not to correct the night
but to follow it—
line by line,
glow by glow,
until the canvas learns
what the street already knows.














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