My Imperfect Mona Lisa
An imperfect Mona Lisa crumpled on cold tile,
Splatters from a deviant brush, a wall gooey red;
A hideous portrait, haunting, her vanishing smile.
She had a pretty face, I thought, mind twisted.
Her lover, the wicked artist on foot; me soon in pursuit,
Pistol out, radio squawking, feet and heart thumping.
Out of sight, in sight, front site---shoot or don’t shoot?
She had a pretty face, I thought, blood hot, pumping.
Silver shields on blue uniting, shouting, sirens wailing.
Here, gone, barricaded, cowered in a random shack.
She had a pretty face, I thought, kneeling and waiting
His surrender---stained hands chained behind his back.
She had a pretty face, I thought in the dark, crying;
A young man with a gold badge, still new to dying.
Copyright © Robert Ray | Year Posted 2018
|