after he reupholstered the
sofas in vermillion he
got down to measuring the walls
for art, each blank space
an abhorrence til here they had
a scene of war there and there
the lion and the lamb lying down, and
pretty much everything in-between elsewhere,
the birds, confounded in their cages and
on the windowsill, twittered at
their painted compatriots, cowered at
the beasts of prey, dazed at
the riot of color
later, they sought out
a still life, white plated, greedily
consumed, appetites whetted by
the heavy-hanging fruits of
their labors
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