by Dan Overgaard
My knees move better than these ancient marble knees,
but not by much. Time's chisel taps a crease
behind my kneecap and some putty falls,
a dusty footnote in these hushing halls.
But would I really want to flash my toes
in brass for endless centuries, next to those?
It seems unseemly, though it's plenty warm
in here, and all the gawkers mean no harm.
I'd love to cool my heels, when times grow hard,
among the lily pads in Monet's yard.
And then some goddess, with a mournful air,
leans down to breathe, "It's not about you, sir."