Oh, you, in the corner of the table,
I expect you never thought you’d wear a crown, or
hang beneath a glass pyramid,
I wonder – Did you have a daughter?
A secret love? Did you hate your father?
Were you one hand of a hundred, toiling a field?
A soldier who refused to yield?
A woodsman who tripped on his own axe?
An artist yourself, turned art at last?
Whatever you were, it seems a shame
That your skull is remembered and
not your name.
Ode To A Still Life Prop
