In the gallery, under spotlights
ages wood and plaster painted
with the colors of royalty, of the
bourgeoisie and the wannabes.
It was the expensive sample
I could see the deepening of
time in the creases of the
folds of wooden drapery and
smell the quaint fastness
of France under King Louis
who soon would be under
I tried to see my reflection in
the leaded glass mirror.
It was dark, the surface clouded
by endless reflections.
Hundreds of years of smiling,
frowning, yawning faces;
of beautiful women powdering
their breasts, looking close to
draw in tiny moles as beauty marks.
Or the fancy dandy powdering a wig,
sprinkling eau de toilette on silken
underwear to hide his musk.
This was light thrown back into infinity,
swallowing photons in the swirls
and eddies of rococo indulgence.
They’re heavy props, dripping
with detestable applique.
But they once adorned a
hallway, or a drawing room,
or even sat in some old lady’s
antique shop, hidden under mouse
dung and threadbare sheets.
Here is a piece of history.
It can remain here.