No one visits Monet today.
Sun rising and setting
on gothic cathedrals and vast fields of wheat
without any witness to the heavenly palette
of sherbet-like oranges and pinks.
No one visits Degas today.
Jockeys restless for action while
dancers
bronzed and oiled
balance on pointe and peek around curtains
into dark and echoing hallways.
No one visit Magritte today.
A cricket, a pipe and blue sky raining down men
just ordinary objects suspended in time
in a surreal, lonely exhibit of
art imitating life imitating art.
© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni
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