Mona Lisa

 

 

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?