Sunday morning at the MOMA
He was floating like a feather
Among Monet’s lillies
A slender pink form
Set against the limpid blue
Of water and sky,
His head resting on
The swirling clouds,
His feet trailing
In the dark green pods.

He could have drifted
In that reflected sky
Forever,
Suspended midway
Between earth and heaven,
Ignoring the jibes of the critics
Who claimed he was ruining
The composition

But from the adjoining gallery,
She was calling him,
Modigliani’s long-faced
Italian beauty
With her mountainous hips
And languorous manner.
He pined for her
Warm fleshy tones,
The hurried brushstrokes
Of the small brown triangle
Between her legs,
The sinuous lines of her torso
Which occupied
Nearly the entire canvas.

Move over , he entreated her,
Make some room for me.

(Originally published by Every Day Poets)