the old yellowed curtains
And the paintings
of the Louvre
hung abandoned.
“Oh yes,”
the old curator said,
“All the best work is here
Now that the world is dead.”
Little Alan
scuffed his sneakers on
the waterproof floor.
“How do they make them?” he asked
pointing to the nearest ones about.
“Oh that,”
waggled the curator
“That is art that is done
Only when the action is at rest.”
“At rest?”asked Alan,
thinking of his naptimes.
“At rest,” answered the custodian,
“When everything is dead.”
This he said staring
blankly into space, his
chin resting on his hand on
the tip of the brromhandle.
“Don’t they ever get a chance to
do it when everybody’s alive?” —
the immense curiosity burned
from the boy’s cheeks.
“Well I don’t know. It’s so hard
to keep track of everything when
everything’s moving around.
So it’s best to wait til
it’s expired. Or at least
sleeping calmly, before one
gazes on it in love.”
“Oh,” said the boy. “I guess
I’m not wanted here anymore.”
And he turned and walked away.
It was funny how
the curator waited
til the figure of
the boy was just a
black silhouette
against the bright doorway’ed arch,
sunlight streaming in,
before he cried out futilely,
“Wait!”
For an instant
The silhouette seemed
snap-shotted there,
and then it moved on.
The after-image
burned on the wall
in the curator’s eyes,
and he absentmindedly
began to charcoal it in,
making one more
picture
in the Louvre.