The way to appreciate a work of art
is to gawk impolitely, taking in each
and every detail. Streaks of brown chestnut
weaving through the Mona Lisa’s hair, if viewed
at close range at a precise angle of, oh,
forty-five degrees or so, to either side
will move with the wind if you wait a while.
It’s weird the way that works. She smirks at you,
almost as if sharing a joke between friends,
but perhaps there’s really something to it. What
if she’s staring at you when you look away
and thinking, “He likes me and I like him too,”
and the grin on her face barely contains the
joy of being alive and lucky enough
to feel feelings of happiness? Elation.
Her smile is warm; so is her emotion.
Those soft, thin lips surrounded by her dimples…
Those big, brown eyes luring you into their gaze…
I swear to God, a man could look at her for
days and never tire of her elegance.
I wonder if she knows of her precision.
If only she could speak instead of listen.