The Two Girls   What was that picture, the one we discarded as kitsch — sentimental, unaware? Who painted it? Was it just some hack, hard on his luck, forgotten even before he died, hardly missed even by the few who’d kept copies neatly cut from an illustrated monthly, framed for dark farmhouse parlors — yes? What was it called? Something silly — Innocence Betrayed? He Was Untrue? And the girl’s dress, with the short puffy sleeves, a modest show of bosom — was it blue? Was a letter on the floor? Was she grieving, with her face in her hands, oblivious of Kapital and the rise of Japan? And the other one, older, stern — a sister? Saying — what? You’ll find another man?     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2010