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.