Manet’s hand painted
the sad flowers
of Paris,
and I stood
in the cool marble
of dead British patriots,
watching the eyes
watch me.

When I look
into the 2-dimensional soul,
I see myself aloof
framed in
wood paneling.
Existing
with emotion
and absinthe.
But questions:
how did these women do it?
No tampons?
Girdles?

I watch the others
shuffle past
swirls of Dutch paint,
and hear pins drop.
The paper diagrams
from the front desk
don’t describe
beauty
or
the rumpled face
of my parquet neighbor
producing an ocean
that says
this chromatic beauty is dead
and I will be, too.

Indeed, affirmation.
Manet knows
the cool soil
I’ll return to.
Slipping into
the satisfaction
of a future abyss,
I sigh
and fold my diagram
as a future memento
of peace and quiet.