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