I searched through the halls of the Louvre
for the Mona Lisa.
When I found her
she looked distraught
and perturbed
at all of the people
who had come to visit her
that day.
Nevertheless,
I was glad to see her
and her strange
and beautiful
face.
The God
that guided
Leonardo’s hand
as he was painting
his masterpiece
guided me
to a café
across the street
after I left
the museum.
I recall
I had eggs there,
and cheese,
and wine,
and light conversation
in French
with the owner.
Aren’t all of our days
works of art?
Aren’t we
works of art?
From the newborn’s cry
to the day we’ll die,
isn’t it all
like a strange and beautiful painting
hanging on a wall?