She cleans his room. Hands scrunch
white scraps of thought into carnations
using the dustbin as a wicker vase.

Drapes are torn off,
and one piece of sculpture is left
standing on the small armoire,

its stone angular, hammered down
to an immaculate form.
This is theme, Rodin in verse.

Poised with a basket
of shriveled language in her arms,
she walks out, secures the door latch
and whispers Fini!



�2006 by Wendy Howe