Being Jackson Pollock

At the gallery opening

I wore heels,

a flowing black dress,

hair upswept.

Refined, sophisticated.

Wine was free

and I drank

as I spoke of line

and balance,

how the piece brought

Mondrian to mind.

I drank

as I spoke

of the genius of Kandinsky and Klimt,

swaying on my heels.

And I drank

as I sang of my love for Chagall’s

flying fiddlers.

My hair fell apart

in sweaty strings around my face

as I tried

to speak of the Fauvists,

but couldn’t remember what to say.

The elegance

melted

around me,

like one of Dali’s clocks.

Wine splattered

to the floor,

and I took note of how derivative

I was of

Jackson Pollock.