I hear they hoard Picasso’s like diamonds.

Excess is common—
escargot at a diner, Parisian no more,
cheapened slime beneath
industrial grade lighting.

Women
drawn and quartered, all cut up,
chaos-con-cube

hung from the wall of some
split-level apartment
where I hear a man
hanged himself
(and his children might, too*)

Their bitterness
licks at the paint
in ordinary strokes
driving down the value of,
what once was,
a masterpiece.

flapping on a line
                faded like a hazy sky
        once bright as bluebirds
How I miss your threads
        pale pink
                once scarlet as a rose

Belly to belly
        sheets are packaged
                in pairs
We could frolic
        in puffs
                of air

My clothespin
        to your rope
Come clean
        sweet cotton
                for romance
Laundry
        let’s dance