In the painting on the end wall, opposite Most Leggi and
the trams, sits a bearded man, head in hands, financial
pages spread, glancing up at a transparent woman, naked,
her arse on the table cloth, arm bent, splayed fingers
taking her weight, foot lightly touching the floor. Her
shoulder's towards him, profile, bobbed hair, quietly
insisting he doesn't have to stay with a spiritually
corseted wife, has only to sweep the papers and his
life onto the parquet and she'll be flesh again, his
hand resting on the inside of her thigh, a chair, baroque
lamp no longer seen through her waist; but it could all
be a businessman's reverie, something to think about
till the waiter arrives bottle in hand, and at the edge
of the picture there he is, foot slightly raised, and
you wonder whether the shoe's going to descend or
rise and whether the girl will disappear as he comes
nearer or if he'll casually ask after pan's wife while
looking past him at the Art Deco clock outside.