Dusting

An Edvard Munch reproduction hangs demurely, yet with a blushing come-hither disclosing/unclothing. A Van Gogh print hovers near her like a sad and troubled lodger. I sense his self-inflicted wound itching under the bandages. Flick goes the duster, for a moment the diaphanous drape covering Munch’s semi-naked girl flies away. In his self-portrait, for an instant Van Gogh’s lost ear returns. I am putting the world to rights, or maybe just my world. Not correcting, just moving the artwork along to where it was going, or should have not gone to before it was set forever inside a jailhouse frame.