Boathouse

On a wall by his bed hangs a picture
Of a curious boathouse
On stilts in back water.
He recalls the scene now, and the painter,

And sleeps on that data,
Putting it back in storage with Whistler’s “Mother”.

Comes morning he rises,
Stares at the boathouse,
And walks out to a stillness
So deep he imagines the morning
Itself stored with the boathouse
And Gainsborough’s “Blue Boy”.

Comes evening, dozing,
He lies again with the boathouse,
But wakes in the darkness, asking,
“Is it that I am awaiting
Some change of wisdom’s pace,
Like the “Winged Victory” of Samothrace?”

No, the waiting proves but a waiting,
A lying in darkness counting
Items already stored,
And wondering if in the morning
The boathouse will still be there,
Along with “Washington Crossing The Delaware”.