Reclining in Central Park, I Remember
By Spencer Barnhill
when I would climb each MET museum stair
imagining all the art beyond that door and marbled
atrium, soon to explore resplendent halls with joy
and laissez faire.
I’d watch Hokusai’s Wave, canary yellow Monets,
Panini’s Ancient Rome, a war that paint, like blood,
elucidates far more than words alone, with beauty
deep, aglow.
But shallow art is quickly filling halls, for taste has
changed from meaningful to choose your own
value, and thus unclear, uncouth.
With air now thin and colors grim, dry walls desire
what once they wore: art that imbues not muddies
the soul, through beauty traced with truth.