99 words

The art nouveau oak moulding, chipped and cracked,

barely hanging from a rusty nail,

begs restoration. Klimt’s young maids untacked,

1910 doors, the flailing clothing rail,

fin de siècle mirror, long have lacked

a master’s living hand. In the hot stale

air of the cluttered loft its owner packed

and fled, dust lies decades deep in a pail.

I see patina, scratches, and fine grain,

not a dandy who fled from the crime,

the desiccated splatter of his brain.

I see myself with chisel, hammer, stain,

old, withered, not him in his prime

tying cravats and cursing the profane.

13 July 2017