I walk through a gallery of
portraits and sculptures,
looks and gestures,
yet without a single label
for context.
Lead me onwards and
show me more, I’ll allow it
and with no question, but
as we near the exit I expect
some form of explanation
to justify the time we spent,
you and I,
in this boundless hall.
Say you painted me a likeness
so your eyes could linger
longer at my face.
Say you fashioned me a chalice
so quenched, my lips would
think of you.
Say you commissioned
every masterpiece
to one day offer at my feet.
Or say that you loved Art
beyond anything or any One —
and that is all the same
to me.
But do not stay silent
and leave me to wonder what
all this meandering is for.
A captive audience, that I was
and may have blushed
a shade or two, yet
I will not yield and
say it first.
I will not ask, and that
is worse —
I’ll simply sketch you as
I like, and hide you
in my verse.