It's Still Life

This Is Mr H Ellis

His head.
Fedora, middle creased, ribbon band,
wide brim as level as a plate. Although
it shades the eyes, nothing hides from
what he sees. What he thinks.

Wears.
White shirt, collar stiff, buttoned up.
Keeps ones chin erect, chin up, pal,
no looking down at your shoes. Although
looking down your nose is allowed.

Red.
Tie, silk, knotted, straight and proper.
Although there’s nothing proper
in his straight gaze, or those lips that
keep secrets. Or that grin —

Crossed.
Arms, judging, you don’t want to be
in those arms. Hands hidden in folds
of his suit, hidden from sight, empty,
or maybe not. And seeing too much

Will
get you dead. And he sits on a stool.
Waiting. Watching. Unblinking.
Memorising the air. Its movement.
Its smell. Its sound. Every snap.

Grin.
And he taps the side of his nose.
Nothing passes the notice of Mr H Ellis.

Nudge #16 Ekphrasis form poetry based on photo of Mr H Ellis, combined with Nudge #15 List poem