Mirrors lean on walls
One: white frame, rectangular
Two: round, turquoise, robin’s egg.
Neither of which belong to her. A symbol, I wonder
for the ease with which all could be (has been?) abandoned.
Finally, at last and at once.
Two red pots
A box of paints
packed, into the passenger side
of the only car she’s ever owned.
Nodding toward the easel in the corner
“More paint, fewer strokes.”
and two small foxes emerge.
Displeased, a third is produced
and the laundry tumbles.
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