In an art gallery

I enter, alone-
think, you haven't been with me to any gallery
where laid out is what we've put up
as life. The ceiling here changes,
 it's high with plaster, angels and sardonic faces
downing us like the start of the Apocalypse
this is where the world starts, in reverse.

I walk the paved corridors alone,
take my time to stare at the portraits
each one, a decade, long enough
to dictate features that could have been realistically
another face in oil, another baroness
begging in the afternoon for a piece
of stale dignity.

in here, I can think, separate myself
from the noise of who I
take for granted to be, my face
my features, my smile
things that could have easily been
in a decent portrait
had I found the artist

sometimes, in galleries I see other pilgrims
like me, hiding
some latching to colors, to light as if it will dust off
the breaks they have from thier packed lunches
or packed guilt for sheer lack of luck
in creation

in most art galleries
colors save face, then lose some
in the indignation of winter and restless heads
there's no cure to hunger for the summer
to aspiring, to better lines on old material
what matters is left, mattering

I march back, alone
think, how many humans seize to become
portraits and become pictures instead, flashing
down like thunder, steadying my steps
I exit and the portraits
walk me to the doors.