O commodities trader
with hallucinating toddler soul,
you coax monstrous floral puppies
to romp through museums,
space-age rabbits to eat
silver carrots on plexiglass altars.
Overpaid street entertainer, balloon artist.
After the shimmer of Monet’s careful,
controlled pastel sensations,
after Renoir’s dancing woman
with a face full of light,
after rooms of dim American landscapes,
the constructed shadows of Dutch masters,
your colors saturate my eyes.
Play-doh yellows, electric fuchsias.
A bright frightening kitten
crawls out of an acid-blue plastic sock
twice my height, its head flanked
by giant daisy barrettes
and monster clothespins, its pink
kitten tongue barely visible,
as if it were hungry, or about to speak,
whispering a secret of salvation.
Read the Museums | Read the Art | Read the Contributors | Contributor Bios