Diamond Row in Philly

was no garden party.

The sidewalk bereft,

a Tennessee walker,

purple velvet painting

leaning on a 40-

lazy hoodlum still life

with a twist of menace

waiting behind the gate.

Subway tunnels nearby

held no cheese (or hope)

but a nice Twinkie

waited in the Wawa

at dawn in the suburbs.

He liked sitting in front of the Rothko,

she envied his ability to feel things

— just by looking at colors.

She wondered if people

ever bother really seeing anyone else

or do we all look at things to see

ourselves reflected…

She followed Rodin’s ridges nose to toe,

actually touched a Van Gogh iris,

and shivered past a Warhol.

I’m too simple really;

I’d like to sit here

in my warm cotton aura

and be wise without worry,

old without ache.

I’ve lost the need to rise

but I love to twist.

In between

morning and evening,

like when the sky yawns

from purple to blue to orange

and back again,

my heart seeks the kissing times-

a break from papers and bread.

I like the moments

when I’m surprised

amid the humdrum,

like when love turns

from gentle to jackhammering.