The Rain Has No Clothes
I have to crane my neck
the small coterie is pressed together.
The svelte tailored nose-whisperer
of a docent remarks:
“You have to see the hidden in the hidden.”
He is all neck and bowtie,
one eyebrow is raised
expecting us to know what he means.
Some nod, some wipe their eyeglasses
hoping to see the unseen more clearly.
I look up at the ceiling, it's a nice ceiling.
I am only here in this art gallery
because of the rain.
I try to take the painting in
from a larger point of view,
but there are backs
and back-packs,
there are slowly dripping rain hats.
Our guide is droning on,
going to a place
where a disjoined flower in a vase,
can be a post-revolutionary revelation
of something or other,
and obviously much, much more
than a few abstract blobs of color.
Tomorrow, I promise myself
to carry an umbrella.
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