Civilized

Sometimes I feel like all that’s missing
from my life is a pair of white gloves
and opera glasses, and a tome the title
of which most people can’t pronounce,
and to drop like bread crumbs behind me
the names of famous poets, artists, and
eggheads for those less fortunate,

who look at a masterpiece and see
only words thrown together or paint
clumped on a canvas but see only trees
while I’m traversing the forest
looking for a solitary moment
where I don’t have to
live up to the expectations
heaped on me because I know
how to string words
together to make poems.

I like Picasso.
Not just because
it’s an easy answer,
mind you, I mean
I really do like him.

But there’s a painting
at the art museum that
has always been my
favorite and I don’t
know who painted it,
or when, what the
landscape depicts
and what style
it was rendered in.

Let me read you some poems
or recite some Shakespeare.

That’s where I feel
more on solid ground.

I can recognize art
in all of its forms
but can it be okay
if I just say Picasso?
~9/27/13