by Phil Huffy

A Rembrandt was found in a basement.
A Bugatti got stashed in a barn.
An abandoned quartet of Vivaldi
was ensconced in a shed near the Marne.

A recipe writ for King Edward
has been baked at a hole in the wall,
and a photo of Dame Nellie Melba
has turned up at a flea-market stall.

An old New York Times in the attic
that was wrapped round a holiday plate
is the only antique I’ve uncovered
in the realm of my own sad estate.