Going Dutch

She stands in the anteroom to his heart

Like a maid in a Dutch painting

Busying herself with small tasks,

dusting the jug, arranging the flowers

smoothing the dog-eared letter

from abroad. One day

her master will return

abandoning the invisible dreams

that scud across his paint-splashed wall.

Today he has barricaded himself

in some ship’s cargo

or behind the darkening pigment

of that brown door. Under the cloth

her map of the world is splotched and forlorn

no words can explain it.   The legend torn.