There’s the African painting Mother bought
in Spain from a Kurdish artist. Back 
to Cleveland, crossed the pond: Rome, Kansas, 
Venice, Rome. And that is global
domain. A forest, a glade by the river,
a canoe lands, three figures waiting.
 
It is dark, but light filters through the trees, 
bright sunlight in daytime, moonlight at night,
a universe of anarchy sheds sparks.
 
The room holds an  antique blonde desk, 
rare heirloom from the cousin 
of a grandmother’s aunt. Loved secretaires
with their crannies, boxes and keys, hidden
by their slanted lids. They dissemble what 
wants to hide, like minds,
unwilling to be viewed. 
 
A hefty bed with hand-made mattress,
rattan slats, pillow clouds and stuffed cat 
from childhood long ago. There to curl up fetal 
and feign the outside world is unreal.
 
An antique Venetian settee, 
in striped silk so delicate it melts 
with a stare. Set low, perfect for short legs, 
and loved by books orphaned from cases
floor to ceiling, crammed with 
the whole of an identity. 
The window looks onto trees. 
 
Not the park in dreams of the untamed sea 
But—listen carefully—the nearby 
car wash plays the music of crashing waves 
or falling rain: just pretend.