Life's last hope
did drip from the chin
of a Sicilian brute,
gone the way of a drunkard.
Against a pear-tree promise
did he set canister abrupt;
almost etching a spider's nest
throughout the porcelain base.
From a sun-soaked stance,
brushes were tossed about.
Within a wormwood framing
sprawled a canvas mouth, hungry.
Saving the last eraser
requires chewing stale loaves.
Half-crusted thrones
for Roma's plums to reside.
A return to the easel
while fornicating with a theory
that villagers may trade labor
for the mirror of a madman's quarters.
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