The gallery is closed my dear.
Not for a private showing,
and not for the season.
The gallery is closed forever!
The off-white walls are stripped
and the nail holes patched.
In Asclepius’ pastel alcove
you’ll find now, a darkened
gaping hole—the bust swept
away on a pushcart by a man
in grey coveralls.
To storage, is the recent rumor.

To the young man who worshiped
J. Pollack: his best effort has
been drip dried and refrozen and
analyzed by at least a dozen would-be
scholars before being loaded onto the
bed of a trailer bound for the coast.

It’s over now!

The hushed voices that once
whispered in verbose discourse,
have run out of snoot nosed drivel.
A renown University Professor has
driven back to Milwaukee—
undaunted and unchallenged.
The Great Corridor — Where once
the occasional raised eyebrow
or stem of horn rimmed eyeglasses
pointed toward a piece of overly fluffed
importance is empty and currently
filled with pale, un-circulated
mid-September air.

The chamber where champagne
flute glasses often touched,
and the hierarchy once circulated,
is now devoid of geometric structure
or even a mention in the local
weekly.

How sad, you say.
As the ventilation system
was once the envy
of the Upper Midwest.
So important for preservation.
The one eyed cat sits at the threshold.
An old man on his cane awaits
the next bus. Unaware.

It’s over now! Drab still. Forsaken.  
Think of that young man from Toledo,
who worshipped Bortero.
His paintings have been taken away,
no cause worth suffering twice.