Listen: We’re weary of all this
small talk. What floral design
best suits the powder room
just down the hall. Will it rain
and when and for how long?
No one here has seen a Klee
nor even heard of him or
the arrow sprouting from the head.
What if we never rid ourselves
of sewing buttons on worn jackets
and conversing about the nap
of a sleeve? So & So and
Someone Else brew the tea
and then off we go—speaking
of bone china and a little
shop here or there where
sugar bowls are a steal. We finger
the hairline crack, and then
the rim. Where is
the white-washed, bare wall
clamoring for the nail
and the vibrant oil, framed?