Peter Chapman Poetry

the hairbrush

walking through the museum
i paused
to watch a frail elegant gentleman
speak quietly with a lovely woman

he wore a soft pink shirt and dark tie
white hair touched his collar;
they went to a large painting

Cassat of course, he murmured
and they stood before the painting
of the artist's mother, looking

later, shaving in an old marble bathroom,
the light from the window faint
across the robed wood door

he heard her laugh, then the sound
of her brush
split into painted rays of perfect artistic semblance
falling to the floor