I’ve never stood opposite the Mona Lisa.

I’ve never heard the euphoria of “Ode to Joy”

or the bloom of Vivaldi’s “Spring.”

Though his favorite playground
sat between his ears,
he loved the fat, easy days
of a California summer.

I put the sign in the window:
Everything’s For Sale.
All aisles must be cleared,
every shelf must be emptied,

Beauty’s in the next room
and everyone’s enchanted.
She’s sitting on a piano, singing
an Irish drinking song, sober
as a Monday morning.

He imagines himself an artist, le bohème,
but the moment the candle uncovers
her face the truth is what’s illuminated.
Ever so Russian, she toys with her possum;
feeds him cascading curls, black-magic eyes,

Small lakes form under armpits,
humidity prunes our faces
and on our brow
evidence of a hard day’s work
without the work.