Yesterday I went to the art institute with Turbo. We recently bought year long passes because the price wasn't much more than it cost to get into the exhibit we wanted to see at the time. The idea today was that we would spend thirty or forty minutes there and write one poem each about a piece of work we found interesting. I think the time frame is key. There is nothing I disdain more than the plan to spend "the day" at a museum. I can't handle going from work to work trying to get into each one and make my own sense of things. It's like going through a menu line by line because you thought you were hungry but nothing looks good. More of a punishment for sitting down at a table. And making the staff go through the motions for an ungrateful customer, well.
  With the quick trip theory I can wander quickly from room to room and only dive in on things that catch my eye. I can read the about paragraphs without fading and feel like I am actually absorbing some truth or at least a glimpse of something unique, something outside my bubble.
  I had smoked a joint and then eaten some lunch so I wasn't all wound up by the time we arrived and I started really catching the flow of the place. If there were people in one room I would quietly and briskly walk through, instead searching for an empty room where others might have the same idea as me.
  I found my art piece to write a poem about and proceeded to scratch it out on my phones notes. Turbo had her lined notebook but I didn't. Mine was a sculpture and what impressed me most about it was the view from directly behind it. The sculpture was a lady, I guess, holding a baby. Honestly I never checked it out from the front and only know this much because T pointed it out during our drive home conversation in which she also explained herself for saying at the time, thoughtfully, "you have a weird sense of humor and I can see why some people don't get it."
  From the back you couldn't tell much about the lady and child though. It looked more like an amoeba or a flatulent pasta star drowning in cheap red sauce that some parent would throw in front of a toddler at lunch. I loved it. It seemed so extreme and perfect up front but blank and open from another view.
  I don't have a copy of Tracy's poem and maybe she wouldn't want me posting it anyways. I'll ask later. Here's mine to hold you over.

The triple boob looks chilly from the back
Or dead
The top boob so hairy and scarred
Pale
And lumpy with one ringing bud on top
How many fools have you summoned
No cares are yours
Alone