Woman in an Armchair

it might have been an unprofitable project,
but once all the political guests had departed,
i went ahead and mowed my lawn.
to safeguard my reputation, i used an edger
and a leaf blower around the standing nudes
guarding my celebrated pond.
inside the backyard cabana, i used a commercial
cleaning product to disinfect all horizontal and
vertical surfaces which might have been touched
by a woman's public hair.
although it was a very private place,
i didn't want it to seem evident
that sex was on my mind or that it became an obsession.
of course it wasn't, and by placing the morning's paper
on the single canvas seat, i was disguising the cave-like
interior by making it similar to an airport waiting area.
everyone, i thought, enjoyed a good flight.
but in my haste to be neat and tidy,
i overlooked the Woman in an Armchair,
on whose lap a skinny and sharp-colored boy was being held.
he was younger and she perhaps the poet-hero older woman
full of joy with a big bronze bust and elevated forehead
which she used effectively to put holes in his heart.
i went ahead and polished that bust before departing
for the nervous streets of my hometown.
i planned to wander from one neighborhood to
the next, keeping an eye out for another discarded canvas seat.
i found one the previous summer.