for Thomas Struth
I see people through the window
of Roy Lichtenstein's house.
The woman in the red shirt
opens a bottle of water.
Her friend with the top knot takes notes,
unless she is writing a poem.
The man in the black cap
looks down. It's a shock
when he lifts the cap -- piles of blond hair.
This art sets off viewers so well.
Down in the Velázquez/Manet exhibit,
not far from the portrait I loved
of an elegant dwarf with a book,
the elderly lady had said something
quiet to her husband.
He was loud. "I don't see her.
Where? Where? Where?"
I met her eyes and unscrambled
her words about my face:
"There's a woman with a beard."
Back in the sculpture garden,
a man is taking my picture.
Another lets his bare belly show
as he reaches up in the shadow
of a looping sculpture. The sun is out.
People are smiling and echoing art.
It seems fair enough, for now,
to play along.