everything is as it should be.
9 p.m.
and everything
is in its place.
the moon in the sky.
curtains pulled across windows.
cars sitting still in driveways.
men drinking two-handed in local bars.
upright letters marching across the page.
children asleep, dreaming what we have forgotten.
the streets veining black, out to and from
places I have no desire to see.
Paris burning in revolution again.
railings tooth-picking their way around
playgrounds and parks and stone-lipped statues.
mountains crouched like creatures unknown to us.
shelved emotions
and the hand left untouched.
her love fired,
burnt out,
the ashes
put away
along
with all those
other deftly
concealed
things.
my masterpiece.
she is sitting beside me now
painting
with green, yellow, purple and pink
mixing them all together
on the page.
there is a small stuffed toy
between us
and she lets me know
that she is a good painter.
I nod and agree
telling her it’s a masterpiece.
but she disagrees -
it is not a masterpiece, it is a butterfly.
and again
I have to agree.