A Study in Rodin

She strolled with grace—a goddess in a fur—
holding a handbag and a champagne flute.
My Ego nudged my Id, said, "Look at her!"
so I proceeded, in my warm-up suit,
to turn my sneakers on the slick parquet
and sidle up to the Rodin display.
The Thinker brooded there, a studied pose
of Man's reflective mood (without his clothes).

She stood, absorbed in art, admiring him,
his bundled muscles bronzed and set in state.
I touched my baseball cap, then tipped the brim,
flashed a grin, and asked, "Could this be fate?"
The sleek Parisian smirked and, with a scoff,
she shook her head, mouthed "Non", and sashayed off.

Through a Parlor Window

The dust of day's detritus grayed the room
as if the ashes of Pompeii
had blurred the atmosphere to smudge the gloom
and grind the light away.

In morning, rays of gold, like tractor beams,
pushed at the fringes of the night
to tailor ragged hems and shadow-seams
that split, allowing light

to permeate the dull of nothingness
with something brighter, more complete:
a sword of pointed color to address
an earlier defeat.

Primary Care

She rises painfully—without complaint—
haloed by silver-white in feathered hair,
and she assists her husband from his chair,
dragging her shadow like a burdened saint.

She wears the mantle—stooped in silhouette—  
of one diminishing by sacrifice,
where giving care becomes her sole device
to pay the interest on a crippling debt.