the oil painting

it's an oil painting.

the flea market
has shelves lined with such
portraits. but this one,

thick with paint. alive
with the gossamer

of linseed oil,
the slick veneer is of
a woman in a silk robe,

burgundy like lust, cherries
ripened.

her yellow hair, like grain
bright
and aglow
in some sunlit field.

Nebraska, the Ukraine?

I hold it away from me.
arms length.

the frame is too large,
too heavy,
too ornate

for such simplicity.

paintings like this bring me no
small
dose of pain.

I turn it over for price.
and think
where would I hide it,

or how could I throw it away.