I sit on the bench eyeing a DaVinci
with my chin in hand, wondering,
inevitable in that position,
about the lady to my left
who has one-upped me
with chin in hand
and index finger
slowly
tapping her lip
and nodding,
possibly in sync
with fluctuating thought patterns.
I came to maintain intellectual status
or obtain at least
but I am berated by soft talk,
swishing loafers on tile,
and the clickety clack
of high heels not too loud
because you can only raise your feet
so high when intellectualizing,
like the man in a blue suit
stifling me with cologne
no doubt spritzed on his crotch
in preparation for an evening
of high-brow artistic discussion.
I’m unable to grasp
Madonna and Child with a Pomegranate
so I press PLAY on the cassette tape
for a headphone narrated history
because between you and me
I don’t even get The Mona Lisa
except in movies
when her eyes are moving
and it hits me
that I’m not even a dilettante
in this throng of nodding,
chin in hand fans,
having won my ticket
at a job fair
where I applied with Frito Lay
because of the employee discount
on chips.
The narrator then begins describing
a painting I can’t even find
so I press STOP and realize
there’s no room for my Dial soap
scrubbed scent and I am suddenly
backing away whispering words
like “egad” and “extraordinary”
and listening to the soft clickety clack
as I begin to walk with loping steps
shooting for more of a clippety clop
and I am tempted to grab my unscented crotch
and stick out my tongue in triumph
when I see the slow, lip-tapping lady
sitting in the same place, nodding,
so I take off my headphones
and again sit down next to her
trying to forget
how much I hate pomegranates.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.