Here's a piece I wrote that I've been told is NOT an ekphrastic. How does it escape the frame?
Still Life
My wife of thirty years
paints a picture of a turnip,
an eggplant, and an onion.
Behind them, a male
and female couch potato
stare at the arrangement
as if it were TV.
The rutabaga's perfect.
The eggplant gleams,
swollen, onyx.
The woman on the divan leers.
The sable darts
at the Spanish bulb.
I watch its breath
lift a scrap of skin.
"How do you do that?"
I beg my wife of thirty years.
She stares at me
as if I were the fellow on the couch.
She daubs rose madder
on my nose:
"I have no idea."
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