In the Museum

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Among still lives of fruit, broken
bread, glass doves and gold goblets,
hung a painting of a decrepit man.
He grasped at his cloak
to pull it more tightly around himself
against the opaque background.
His red-lidded eyes gazed out,
his warped mouth gaped.
There was no caption to tell
who did it, what it’s about.

A woman entered the room
pushing a stroller full of wailing.
She sat at the bench
in the center of the room,
tucked the infant under her shirt
and breast-fed discreetly.
She spoke sweetly to it; she smiled
and closed her eyes.
I looked at the painting,
his look of listening.

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