I’ ve been to see The Mona Lisa.
Traversed the angry Atlantique.
Dealt with Frenchmen;
their lunging taxis,
their coffee dense and bitter,
their sweet condescension.
I’ ve stood for an hour
in a wind-driven rain.
Descended into the
great pyramid of I.M. Pei.
Paid the fare in francs
to wander that fortress
Past the winged Victory,
the armless Venus,
Vermeer’ s Astronomer.
Five hundred depictions
of the dying Jesus and
the elegant portraits of
many Frenchmen who
would sadly lose their heads.
I followed the signposts,
heard my heels
down the lengths of
those long hallowed halls.
Then, at once she was there.
Her face looking back at me
over a field of cameras
held high above the crowd.
the subtle terra incognita of her
spattered with awe
and battery light.
And I took my turn,
slithered and gaped and
uttered excuse moi and
then turned my back again,
and wandered off to
look for Olympia.