She hides, huddled behind packing crates

wrapped in muslin, jarred from

riding over the one-two thrusts of

cobblestone road.

She’s on a hide out from Hitler.

How many journeys has she been on?

Several – some shorter than others.

Slipshod movement from one room to

another, minor fingerprints leaving trace

oils on her desperately dry skin; listening to

the drones of salon parlor wunderkinds

extemporizing on her beauty.

Men have literally killed over her.

Not one satisfied with mere infatuation,

its not lust really – more like overwhelming desire

to possess.

Some have even gone to war to capture her hand.


For an overrated smile, actually a grin thought

mischievous or knowing. But its only paint.

Paint smeared on a canvas.

Extremely well smeared by the artist, yes, but

typical in subject and presentation of the

High Renaissance.

Da Vinci drew all day in his notebooks, writing

backwards about his inventions, discoveries,

theories, and ideas. Vitruvian Man and the

Golden Mean must be more important

than she.

He drew anatomical images and studied the pathways

of veins, he drew a man and woman during

intercourse imagining a cutaway view

so much like a CT Scan its amazing…

just so he could better understand


That one sure isn’t hanging in the Louvre.

But this woman’s portrait hangs in the gallery

isolated, hidden behind thick bullet-proof


Mobbed by thousands of strangers a day

just to get a postcard view of her curled little lips.

The majority surely has no taste

but they do recognize Mona Lisa’s face

and that must count for something.