Greg Veitch

Concerning the Bellboy

The milkmaid in Vermeer’s paintings with the
shabby blue apron, the look of bitter
romance washing her face with a gray simplicity;

perhaps it was the shepherd’s son who had never
returned her simplest fears, or perhaps just the
pyrite complexion of Lord Donahue’s oldest

nephew, her mind elsewhere as tallow clings to
wrinkles in her work. Ground anise, sharp
lavender in quiet haste while the outside

world revives its frenzied pulse; oh what a
pleasure to see the new candles just as
the lady suggested. Perhaps now the

soft smell of emptiness formerly kicked
under the tin wash basin returns up
the sleeve of the coxcomb that evening.

Greg Veitch is an upcoming writer in Guilford, Connecticut. So far he has only been published in a few small literary magazines, one of which belongs to his high school. Do not overlook him though--just because he has not been recognized to a great extent does not mean his writing is anything less than mind-numbingly exciting. (He may simply be a bit shy.)

(author retains copyright)