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Art Nouveau at Six
cotton-candy faced child
lips pursed in crayoned industry
carpet-sprawled toy litter
pushed by her legs into an easel shape
not for her stick figure tradition
adhering to shared tables
of nursery classrooms, sidewise glances
not for her crinkle flower-grin faces
and five-line houses, popsicle trees
mouth daubed with finger paint
she presses lips and nose to page
pours a pool of glue into a corner
then upturns it upon the rug
where errant threads and cat hair trails
attach themselves to its wet surface
with bits of dust and grime
joining in with conspiratorial smear
she lays the page on window sill to dry
where spider-like its tentacled web
captures a careless fly; admonished,
sent to clear up her mess, her irate mother
scrubs to remove stains splattered on her dress
she wriggles through it all eyes fixed
on some distant star, that only she can see,
I think of Van Gogh and of Dali
of Andy Warhol and yes, of Philip Glass
spilt paint swirling through his veins
with rhythmic frequency
let her be, they tell her mother
let her be
© Johnmichael Simon
2009
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