History Speaks

He is almost perfect, just a chip on his nose, a neatly bearded patrician. His spouse is seriously damaged, her face mangled by time. In the museum two Roman busts placed a little apart from each other. I sense her mood; insight gives her words. “I never loved him.” the marble woman says, her one crushed eye tilts toward her consort. “He was ever the highhanded martinet. His original bust was hacked off, it lay face down in the dust for hundreds of years covered in goat . This one is a fake him. I like him better.”