Another Name I'll Likely Never Know

i saw her on the fifth floor

with her nose as close

to an original Seurat

as security would allow

she was alone, and

i immediately knew

it was by choice

a woman feeling the art

that deep

can’t be bothered

with companionship

so i followed her

around the rooms,

one painting behind,

sometimes catching up,

and us both standing

close to a piece

staring in silence

at a break in time

she kept distracting me,

but not on purpose,

with her dull red boots

and unkempt crown

of wheat spaghetti

and grave green eyes

but especially because

her straight-faced objectivity

toward each painting, which

held a strong subjective leaning,

hinted at an endless well

of mystery

is she a sensitive lover?

is she a whatever neo-nihilist?

it drove me

mad mad mad

mad mad mad

mad mad mad

she inspected each piece

like she’d go blind

at any glance, so

she better get her fill

did she like daisies or

tulips or

roses or

sunflowers or

none of the above?

what did she smell like

in the morning?

how does she take her eggs,

if any at all?

i didn’t speak to her

because i knew

she was involved in

serious business,

so she is another name

i will likely never know,

but she is so much

more than that,

even at a glance

she had no bag

or camera

or phone

like the others did

she only had herself,

those red boots,

those green eyes,

the Now,

the alluring unknown,

Seurat, Picasso, Pollock

and the likes

and me as her shadow

that longed to stick around

after the lights are switched off

i could tell she was the type,

who, the ones she mused over,

mused about in dim lit rooms

with fruit bowls

and like i do with

all the names i’ll likely never know,

i wonder now, as i write this,

if she will wonder my name

the next time she has her nose

as close to a Seurat

as the security will allow her