At thirteen shallow years
I balked at this museum tour.
Begged to feed six ivory swans
along the Seine, trade
a tea cup for a Coke.
Dragged instead into the Louvre.
Harem veins beside a pulse --
somehow deeper purple cause.
Tourists trailed from frame to frame.
Pock marks from their penny loafers
scratching at a frozen god.
In wild percussions,
I wandered from piece to piece.
Embarrassed by my nakedness
captured in a sculpture's curve.
Chilly marble, polished rock,
chiding art that I was not.
White and new, dipped in bronze,
dipped in mud of bygone ghost.
A blue jay decked with chimney soot
banging its wings against warm glass.
Conversation filled the paint.
Palettes of a sharp Gaugin
dispersing hubris, scoring
us with arrow chins,
our ugliness made elegant.
A thousand slaves to dollar signs
worked a million cramping hours
to board a jet,
cross the choppy blue divide,
to witness firm epitome.
We were watchers -- all of us.
Mugged by beauty. Marred by lack.