my guide and I admire the beautiful
and affluent women
milling about the marble halls of the
foyer in their weekend afternoon
dresses, wolf whistles tickling the
music of our tempted minds before
entering the men's room where our
randy banter turns to dead manly silence
as we relieve ourselves from those
extra large Whataburger drinks
that started crying freedom
on the highway between here
and Dallas, not making eye
contact until the automated hand
driers hum in the distance
leaving us free to get fresh again with
our juicy lady killer vocabularies
we hushed up for a long stroll
gazing at masterpieces and
head scratchers lining the walls
we all pause at
James Ensor's Skeletons Warming Themselves;
I saw myself in that painting, worn to my
bones by travel and warming myself
here in the cultured halls of beauty:
on the canvas, in the bared tan flesh
of women and the whispered dialogue
of my friends, all of which brought me
back to life in this ill-fitting
skin, a museum exhibit of
it's own
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