08 | January | 2015 | Golden Star Poetry

The MOMA guarantees
that you will see
at least one new piece
every time you visit:

I’m looking at a blue stained
miniature marble house on a pedestal
it looks like my childhood
It smells like Copper and wine

I’m looking at some nude paintings
filled with apples and pears and a tabby
I am reminded of my virginity
and the solidity of touch.

he takes me into the main art gallery
and the attendants scold us
we’ve been trying to eat french fries
where they won’t let us
we’re trying to do something different.

there’s a homeless girl who just walked in
and who doesn’t know
what art is.
the man who composed “living trash”
is visiting his own installation
and volunteers her to stand
in the center of the room.

she thinks they must want her
as a part-time employer
or the janitor
but I wanted to tell her
to run out of the doors
and save herself
before they make an excuse
to call her greasy hair
a tragic masterpiece.

so we ate our fries in peace that day
out on the front steps,
not inside the museum,

we kissed and
held hands in a simple sort of way
our foreheads touched and we smiled
at the innocent reminder, because
we new what we really wanted to see,
the freesia smell of comfort was by my side
and it was enough for me.