MoMA

by Mister Victor

Photo by Klaudia Piaskowska on Unsplash

In high entrance hall
on a Sunday afternoon
in the Museum of Modern Art

People come and go
to throw seen trophies in their cart

But there is one
who comes dressed in canvass black

To visit once friends
from long since back

And up she rises
to galleries in serial array

Awaiting her arrival
for an engaging parlay

She stops before Rousseau
with stark composition
seemingly cut and paste
with ulterior disposition

Then bending to Dali
persistent memories on trial
surreal vs. the real
the hung jury in denial

Take a breath at Van Gogh
self-portrait in broad strokes
but yellow is not her color
reflection is just a hoax

The painstaking of Seurat
decomposition to extreme
perception is a pointed place
configured as one deems

Deconstructing Picasso leers
wielding distorted shape
if she sat for the master
would she embrace the painted rape

The final assault of Pollack
on feature, function and form
scatter-shot on negative space
she withdraws from the storm

In silence she vanishes from gallery walls
like a muse who’s begged to wife
jilted paintings fade and dissipate
deserted to still life
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