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.
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