Junkyard Post Three Week Five

Marmo Finto

In St. Francis' Church in Gubbio, there is no marble.
The town, too broke for nice stone, paid painters to swirl designs
onto the walls and pretend the reds and browns were real.
When we moved to Georgia, my mother, curls sticking to her sweaty skin,
painted age on the front of the oak cabinets, told me it's a faux finish
and makes our house elegant. It looks real, even up close.
Gubbio wanted elegance too, except it only looks real from far away.
Kind of like you, telling me you're fine and that you're happy.
But unlike my mother's painter, your mask doesn't look real up close.
You're a church wall, facaded in the swirls of elegant marble,
but when I stare, squinting hard, there's nothing.