A Painting By Vermeer

Painting by the Artist, Vermeer

My eyes flicker across the name on the card
brought to me by Nurse.
I can barely read the writing,
my eyes become dim.
Alas, the callers are others,
not him.

“I’ll not see anyone”, I plead to Nurse,
“Not today, not tomorrow.
I will not entertain during, this, my sorrow.
(Oh my heart doth faint)
Leave me to my chambers.
From now on,
I romance only my pain.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, marm.”
Nurse moves
towards the parlor to
turn the caller away.

I will scatter music sheets
around my room,
strum an elegy
to misbegotten love,
symphony to my gloom.

I will gaze at the paintings on the wall
and travel through the landscapes
hung one over the other.
Stark rocks intimidate
my soul,
desolate trees speak of wilted promises,
like the flower that droops
from his buttonhole.

Feet span the cold black and white squares,
echo dead footsteps on the marble floor.
I will climb into bed,
call for Nurse,
“Pull the curtain around my last dream,
let me sleep,
close the bedchamber door.
I will see callers no more.”

Before I torture with thoughts insane,
and furthermore break
the reader’s heart,
I contemplate the canvas,
then remember that
I am just an artist’s
dreary
work of art.