Admiration

If you were a painting by Gaguin or Kahlo,

one of the masters or last century’s greats

I would walk the two blocks to the university gallery,

buy my ticket, look at you and contemplate.

Perhaps I would take a picture to remember

the light from the East windows illuminating the

gold leaf frame. Or maybe I’d retrace the signature 

of the artist’s name, pretend that I created you and 

that you were my claim to fame.

Then I would leave the exhibit, and stumble 

humbly down the street. I’d rejoice in the splendors

of the modern world, that a simple girl

can gaze upon such a masterpiece.

But I wouldn’t dare to take you home,

when the docents turned the other way.

No, I wouldn’t stage a great art heist

(though I’d make the papers for at least a day).

On the museum wall you would remain,

for countless crowds of others to see.

For the beauty isn’t in owning you,

but in your existence at the same time as me.