BACK HOME AGAIN

When I came into your parlor,
you led me to a chair
that was specially prepared, you said,
for the next unknown guest.

When I sat down you couldn't see me,
and had to do a double take —
which the paparazzi who follow me day and night
splashed across the tabloids
like a graffiti you splashed across the universe,
beginning with your own home.

It was all over the walls and drapes and furniture,
all over the ceiling and floor.
You made your statement alright —
that was your freedom of expression guaranteed
under the reinterpreted First Amendment
of the reinterpreted Constitution.

It was the heart that decided me,
so reminiscent of an Egyptian Ankh:
it made me imagine desert sand under your bare feet,
instead of ecstatic paint droppings.

What would have happened, I wonder,
if I had gone ahead and sat down
as you wanted me to do?
Was that a part of your artistic plan,
which I ruined by being so refractory?

BACK HOME AGAIN

We'll never know. I didn't capture the moment,
as perhaps I was supposed to do —
and seldom ever did for all the years you knew me.
But you of all people should understand that.
Being so spontaneous yourself,
you can't expect others not to follow suit
and join in the inspiration.