I stand in the background and sketch what I see,

commissioned to do so by the powers that be.

 

These sylphs I portray fill me with—how shall I say?—

disgusto, which I am hard-pressed to contain.

 

A retinue of maids and little people costumed

for a seventeenth century closet play are consumed

 

by a tiny child dolled up like a fairy princess,

whose vapid gaze suggests that she could not care less.

 

Or do I imagine this? My issues with the terms

stem from the wish to reveal and conceal in turn.

 

Mirrors abound in which I can see myself working,

blending the pigments, dabbing, and stroking.

 

My patrons loom in shadows, dark-garbed, severe,

and I try to have as little to do with them as I dare.

 

A mastiff dozes by a mirrored armoire while fuss

and soft servility complete unfinished business.

 

When will I be done? Maybe soon, likely never.

An experience like this would sour anyone forever.