There’s always the illusion the museum I carry

inside me, of coal dust, black bread and worn-out brooms

could turn into a seaside palazzo of framed lithographs

and immaculate linens. There’s the hope that some magical

storm could sweep over my life, making dinners prepare

themselves, dust motes fly back into the atmosphere,

newspapers slide out of their messy heaps into trash bins.

My marriage, too, could evolve like that dream

where I grow wings and fly through sun-filled windows

into the arms of a beautiful stranger. We two will

sit back in a chaise longue in freshly painted harmony,

tend hothouse orchids on the patio and photograph

street-sweepers at dawn. We will witness glorious sunsets

behind the Pillars of Hercules reconstructed on our lawn.

There will be no weeds, smudged windows or carpenter ants,

no growling dogs or nosy neighbors with garish swing sets.

I will indulge my desire for a Moroccan bathroom

with marble floors and a mosaic dragon. It’s not that

I can’t see that a fresh start is a white lie, my dream

of arriving at a fulcrum of elegance just another decorative

hope embellished with gold braid. The truth is I will

never get around to painting that dining room mural

or hanging linen swags. My success is of no consequence

to these walls. This ceiling fan could be the one I die beneath.

But I move past misgiving and chaos with chipped

stoneware, tattered baggage and dreamy optimism,

the throb of salvation beating in my chest like a drum.