A man takes a brush and paints a woman.
He dips his brush and strokes the canvas.
He swirls and sighs and caresses.
He feasts his eyes and fingers and nose on her.
He puts a mirror in her hand and calls the painting Vanity.

A man steps into a gallery and looks at a woman.
He licks his lips and tilts his head.
He calls it an objective appraisal and lingers on her breasts.
He thinks of his girlfriend’s natural face.
He looks at the mirror in her hand and sneers.

A man buys a painting of a woman.
He hangs it in a dark leather room.
He insists his wife swirl on carmine and eyeliner.
He sees magazine pages like picture frames.
He scoffs at the same mirror in their hands.

An artist’s model is immortalized and gets her goddamn fee.
A critic’s girlfriend flashes her red soles and gets out her red pen.
A dilettante’s wife puts on her mask and ties down that contract.
She picks up a mirror and calls it a gun.