Father’s Day, Musée Delacroix

The lithograph hangs
immaculate, while the chest
beneath it gleams.

The Moroccan sword
and beaded sheath lie separate
in glass cases.

I won’t think of the bed,
where it’s gone, where all
thought expired.

Rainbow congealed
on the palette, elegant brushes
go unstroked.

In the courtyard, a man
reads so slowly to his son he
is reading to me, also.