poem of the day 08.04.09

gallery blues

the woman with
the child on her shoulders
who keeps crying
the man with the camera
and video
crowding every space
to get a good shot
the ones shouting
arguing with the security guard
because he won’t let them touch
the van gogh’s
the ones who have to stand
in front of one painting
for ten minutes
holding their chins
discussing every nuance
of the work
in details that would make
the artist want to die
if he weren’t already
or the others that come up
behind you after you’ve
made your own
aesthetic deductions about a
landscape
the ones who have to make
some idiotic point
and ruin it all
why? why do they come out
like this on a beautiful august saturday?
isn’t there a ballgame on television?
the circus in town?
a hot dog vendor outside
with a lonely constitution about him?
a forty ounce soda waiting to slake their thirst?
some movie where shit gets blown up
for ninety minutes?
no, no, i guess we’re stuck together
me
and you
everyone else
and hundreds of years of art
still getting the shaft from
the bored hoi polloi