Alone in the gallery

Picture Window

The living room where I sit silent

ambered deep within the friendly grip

of this easy chair, inhales and exhales

in waltz time, wonders for a moment if

this, this, is really living, entertains

dreams of Versailles, perhaps the Hall of Mirrors

secretly thrills to garish Rococo

abandon but falls into despair

over time’s passing, mocked by the quartet

of corners that won't ever be turned

until the big easy chair pipes up

in a Bing Crosby baritone hung

with Spanish moss, slathered in Tupelo

honey.  “Take a load off B-B-Bub,

enjoy the view”, arms open wide

on the framed picture window, a simple

landscape rendered in evening’s muted

colors, near abstract representation

of houses and yards of neighbors

across the street, a foreground trope of children's

chalk drawing unspooling down the sidewalk.

We sit in awe, a silent trio

until we’re joined by a fourth, the drum

table stitching a soft tattoo of sleep.